#Part XXIII

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XXIII): Loss, Second Chances, and In Absentia

We begin the countdown to the end of the Scully Family series!

Today, we tackle a broad array of subjects: complicated familial dynamics, well-intentioned meddling, and conflicted yearnings.

A VERY MERRY MISCOMMUNICATION

The episode opens on Bill and Tara’s Christmas display-- specifically, Tara herself: great with child and jubilation. When her husband unlocks the front door, she rushes over to greet her guests, beaming under Maggie’s effusive, “Look at you!” and Dana’s “You’re huge.”

“Sorry about the digs, Mom, I know you hoped you’d never have to spend another night in base housing,” Bill pipes up, displaying a natural conscientiousness. 

“Are you kidding? This is wonderful.” 

It’s Scully who is taken aback by the obvious: “It’s the exact same layout as our old house.”  

Her brother nods, half amused, “Well, that’s the Navy for you.” 

“Bill tells me, Mom that you’re going to be staying in your old room; and the nursery’s going to be in--” Tara briefly pauses, looking back at her husband for confirmation, “--Dana and Melissa’s room.” 

He and Tara quite obviously believe the house will delight their guests; and are just as obviously delighted with it themselves. It seems their move here is rather recent (or recent enough that Maggie hasn’t flown out to throw a housewarming party, yet) and kept as secretive as possible from their family. 

This points to a few things:

Bill seems exultant to live once again on familiar turf-- a doppelganger childhood home-- and to grow his own child up in that replica. 

Tara is overjoyed to take part in that dream with him, and build their life in a copy of the happy memories of his childhood. Meaning, the stories he must have told about his growing up years were tender and fun and nostalgic; and she wanted their child to have a similar happy experience. 

Both Bill and Tara are proud of their cookie-cutter house; but are more proud that they not only kept it as a surprise but are able to shock Maggie and Scully with it. This points to a generosity of spirit: that, although celebrating their first Christmas together as parents, they still took the time to plan around their extended family.

Yet, amidst their happiness, Bill stops to recognize that his mom isn’t a fan of base housing; and Tara to assure her mother-in-law that she has the rights to her own room and familiar comforts. 

As rampageously happy as the two are to share this experience with Maggie and Scully, they miss a few saddened moments: Dana uncomfortably smiling over sleeping in the room she used to share with her dead sister, and Maggie lagging behind to process her losses in this replica Christmas house. 

Scully, however, notices that her mom is hanging back; and she stops her ascent upstairs to check in: “Mom? You okay?”

“Oh, yeah”, Maggie brushes aside, turning from the tree. “Just thinking about your Dad. And Melissa,” she adds as she sweeps by and up the stairs. It would seem both Scully women have the same determination as their hosts: contribute to an impeccable family holiday. While husband and wife think that’s fitting up rooms to reignite nostalgia, mother and daughter think that's setting aside their unease at these reminders-- i.e. getting over themselves-- so Christmas won't be spoiled.

Scully is stopped from following the family up the stairs by a phone call: an unmarked woman’s voice-- Melissa’s. 

“Dana.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Dana. She needs your help.”  

It’s not here (as I first assumed) that Scully panics, running up the stairs and insisting she heard her late sister’s voice and insisting Bill drive her to a random location. But panic is present as she dials up San Diego’s FBI extension and insists they trace the call; and bewildered panic is there as she arrives at the scene, Bill chauffeuring her in his car.

It’s a tiny but important detail about their relationship: Scully hasn’t shared with her brother why she needs to visit a stranger's address, doesn’t even tell him why when they arrive at a crime scene. But he supportively drives her over and patiently wait outside while she loiters in, begs for information, and sifts through the details the local force gives her. 

After she retreats (after she sees Emily Sim-- which will be discussed in a future post), she rejoins him outside; and Bill quietly asks, “Dana, what’s going on? They’re joking that you got a call from a dead woman.” 

This is interesting: either the police are loose-lipped chatters near unauthorized crime scene gawkers or Bill is rife with intelligent, circumspect behavior: 

Bill Scully knew exactly what to say to pry details from the investigation team; or

Bill Scully quietly and nonchalantly listened in on the other cops’ conversations, enough to know that his sister was talking with the detective about a phone call from beyond the grave. 

While not particularly earth-shattering, it’s a cool little insight into his character. 

At his gentle prodding-- and Bill is gentle, bending down and speaking softly (so different from but not dissimilar to Mulder’s methods)-- Scully opens up: “I thought it was a dead woman-- just not the one in there. I know it’s not possible, Bill, but it sounded just like her. Our sister.”

Bill’s freezes, unable to process this information. 

“Melissa,” Scully further clarifies. 

We’re not shown Bill's reaction-- or Scully’s reaction to his reaction-- instead swinging immediately over to the dinner scene. But that in itself is incredibly telling: both siblings are forced to address Melissa’s absence… and both siblings put it behind them as quickly as possible. Even more telling is the fact that Bill treats his sister with nothing but compassion this episode and the next, despite the direct ties between her work and their sister's death. It speaks to a largeness of character: despite being a bully (he was as a child, he was to Mulder, he can be-- though he tries to temper it-- with his sister), he never held Melissa’s death against his youngest sister. He is just and he is fair... in this judgment, least.

Their father and Bill and Scully (and possibly Charlie) all served their country; and with that service came duty and responsibility and danger. Melissa was a casualty to that service, just as their father’s crew members and many other innocent civilians were (or might have been) casualties in war. Bill himself could become a casualty to a future conflict or could fail to prevent other innocent lives from becoming casualties themselves. The fact that Bill understands and does not hold Scully responsible for Melissa’s death-- despite what his little sister could believe herself-- is an incredibly mature, nuanced take that I’m glad replaced the horrendous, stilted, one-sided perspective Memento Mori almost made canon (post here.) 

At dinner, Bill and Tara and Maggie are quietly conversing amongst themselves-- lightly catching up on neighbor or family gossip, I presume-- while Scully sits withdrawn and anxious. Before she gets up to leave, we get a glimpse of Bill and Tara’s comfortable interactions: he passes the food her way, without thought, and waits for her to grab her portion patiently. It takes no effort from him to be considerate to people he likes, which we can chalk up to his mother’s training growing up (e.g. post here.) 

Scully, visibly uncomfortable, leaves the Hallmark moment to call up her wayward partner (who jumps into frame in a Scrooge sleeping cap); but, despite a desperate need for reassurance or help or comfort, she hangs up the phone without speaking and returns to the table. This, here, proves that-- while Scully has made progress-- opening up to others is still a challenge for her. 

Which is desperately sad in hindsight: A Christmas Carol and Emily force Scully past her own barriers-- to admit her infertility to Maggie, to fight against her mother’s staunch insistence that Emily is not Melissa’s child, to attempt to defuse Bill’s suppositions, to beg for custody of her daughter, to accept her need for Mulder on this case. And to unfortunately feel that it was all for nothing: Emily dies; and Scully resurrects distance between herself, Mulder, and her family once again. 

She returns to the table, still ill at ease; and another dynamic from the cancer arc resurfaces: Bill notices that something’s wrong-- “Everything okay?”-- first, which then draws Maggie’s attention to her daughter. Again, this points to a keen observational ability on Bill’s part (which I’ve discussed here, and in his Personality Typing post here): he is able, almost without effort, to see through his sister’s disguises; but is, unfortunately, not able to translate his observations fluidly-- unlike Mulder. 

An interesting thought: if this be the case, it's easy to see why he hates Mulder so completely. He intuits that Mulder can see through Scully, as well (after observing him sitting by Scully’s bedside, kissing her hand, and advocating for his own form of treatment), but remains convinced that Mulder uses this to his advantage-- in effect, tricking her loyalty and pressing her pain points to keep her close to the work; and, selfishly, close to him. But, again, Bill can’t read people completely correctly: he senses the right emotion but miscalculates its underlying reasons. Because of this, he can sense his sister’s true feelings (“You think you can cure yourself”/”Is everything alright?”) and Mulder’s true feelings (“Was it worth it?”) and his mother’s true feelings (“You know what this is doing to Mom?”), but doesn’t temper those feelings with nuanced, mature perspective-- namely, he doesn’t try on other people’s shoes.This comes back to bite him: as much as he wants to help-- and he does-- Bill can only blunder around inelegantly while stepping-- ironically-- on pain point after pain point. 

Tara accidentally interrupts her husband’s quiet prodding with a loud exclamation: the baby kicked. Scully, alert (and slightly panicked) realizes it’s a false alarm; and is then trapped in a situation where everyone but herself is embracing the moment. Maggie, Tara, and Bill are all smiles as one parent chatters about her excitement and the other reaches his hand over naturally to feel his child move. 

“You had boys and girls-- so which one kicked more?” Tara asks; and Maggie responds fondly, “Oh, I had some pretty tough little girls”, while turning to catch Scully’s eye: an echo of her “You were always the strong one” in Memento Mori (post here.) 

Scully doesn’t respond, looking quietly from her mother back to her sister-in-law, eyebrows scrunching in pain as Tara cheerily rambles on about motherhood: “You know what? I can’t believe I’m about to say this-- as big and fat as I am now, I can’t wait to have more. This is our baby, our son. It kinda gives everything new meaning.”

At this, Maggie looks over to share the moment with Scully… and notices her daughter’s fallen face. Her son was onto something, after all. 

Speaking of Bill, at his wife’s closing statement-- “I can’t help but think life before now was… less. Just a prelude”-- he looks pleased as punch: a sentiment he obviously shares with her. Bill, the big, traditional family man; and Tara, the big, traditional family woman-- they’re suited to each other; and deliriously happy. However, he’s too shy or self-conscious to say it out loud, smiling at his wife before catching most of that smile back when Maggie happily locks eyes. It could be because he perceives an outward expression of tender emotion to be contrary to his masculinity-- an effect he and Scully took from their father-- or because he just feels giggly and googly-eyed and vulnerable over this new emotion. Either way, he clamps down on it as best he can… which isn’t a lot.

Afterwards, Maggie joins Scully in the kitchen, both of them pitching in to clean the dishes-- an exact mirror, three years later, of the last Christmas the two shared with Captain Scully. (As an aside: Scully washing dishes with her manicured, professional suit sleeves is so… Scully that it almost made me chuckle.)  

“What’s the matter?” her mother prods, refusing to let the issue go despite her daughter’s “Nothing.” Hand on her hip, she stares Dana down while the other woman turns aside, purposefully avoiding eye contact and sighing. 

Scully tries to shake the interrogation away with a half-truth, plopping a plate down roughly and turning defensively to get the matter over with: “Mom, I’m very happy for Bill and Tara.”

“You don’t seem to be.” 

The truth of that statement cracks through her defenses; and, after a momentary pause (where she looks to the side, up, and down-- like all the Scullys do when facing intense emotion), she gives up, sighing, “Oh, Mom.” Pausing for another long spell to pull her feelings together, she confesses, “Several months ago, I learned as a result of my abduction-- of what they did to me-- that I cannot conceive a child.”

Maggie is shocked and grieved; and immediately scoops her daughter up in a hug, knowing she needs it. Scully, like in Memento Mori, stands still: trying to cast off her own emotions by becoming the bearer up of others’ pain. 

“I’m so sorry,” her mother consoles. 

“It’s okay,” she rejoins-- voice vulnerable, cracked, young: so like the voice of Season 1 Scully that we know she is cut to the quick over this news. Her eyes begin to water and her face begins to crumble: and this is interesting because it shows she has still clung to the emotional growth of Redux II, not (yet) sliding back into complete, stone-walled distance. “I just never realized,” she continues, a vulnerability from her deathbed woven through her words, “how much I wanted it until I couldn’t have it.” 

This is the second time Scully's allowed herself to be completely open with her family (the first being Redux II.) And as hurtful and frightening as this vulnerability might be, Maggie is rewarding that openness with comfort and support; which, in turn, helps Scully open up that much more later on. 

The scene transitions to the nursery where Scully is sleeping-- the famed replica of her and her sister’s childhood bedroom-- surrounded by infantile toys and furniture. It’s here that her dreams begin to be plagued with memories and premonitions, nightmares of her (as yet unknown) child.

In her first dream, little Scully bursts in through the door with Bill in hot pursuit. He is in full bullying mode, threatening to turn the wild rabbit she rescued into stew-- and while he is obviously over-exaggerating to get a rise out of his gullible baby sister, it sets her ablaze in righteous fury: “No, you’re not!” she yells, pushing him backwards. Still, when he retreats, Scully doubts her abilities, yelling, “You’re not going to find him. …Bill!” as if she can call her brother back and reason with him. 

It’s not news that Bill was a bully and they had a sometimes turbulent relationship: in Gethsemane, she fondly recalled one of their arguments to a (presumable) family member before his arrival, regaling (with glee) how she either maneuvered or pushed him down the stairs. Still, these squabbles didn't break or deeply affect their relationship: she hung out with him and Charlie during her tomboy days, and the two brothers chipped in one year to surprise her with a bb gun (posts here and here.) What I find interesting is that Bill could see through her even then; and that, while Scully tried to put up a brave front, he never seemed to buy it.

But that brings up another valuable point: Scully believes she’s gotten away with a false front (post here); but in reality? No one-- not her mother, not her father, not her sister, not her brother, not her partner, not even her boss-- is fooled by her pretenses. Scully herself believes she’s being incognito when she’s painfully transparent; and that aspect-- her inability to lie believably-- is coded deeply into her character (and was one of the reasons Gillian Anderson was frustrated that Chris Carter hadn’t told her Scully was in on Mulder’s Redux I collusion.)

(Also, as another side note: I know they couldn’t direct the little girl to mimic Gillian’s faces, but the casting crew were incredible: they picked one who made an identical expression naturally. Look at that face! It’s Scully’s when faced with horror, anxiety, or fear.)  

Little Scully sneaks down to the basement where she pulls out a large, tin storage container; and, unfortunately, finds a very dead rabbit inside. After staring silently in horror, she looks back at the stairs and sees Emily. The dream, then, does something interesting: the camera shoots back to young Scully to show her unnaturally blank face, leaving us to conclude this moment has bled in with current Scully’s processing unconscious: 

Scully recalls the moment when she accidentally killed an animal; yet later, she also purposefully kills a snake (after disobeying her father’s orders.) After each incident, she is horrified, but it’s not until she makes an active decision to take a life that the weight of her guilt comes crashing down. While terrified after finding the dead rabbit-- and feeling the horror of it years later-- the cost of her actions hadn’t sunk in. This means she was too young, at the time, to fully understand or grapple with what she’d done; and it’s only now, in hindsight, that the weight of this moment is oozing inward. 

Despite the dead rabbit and the dead snake, Scully joined medical school to study dead bodies. Knowing Scully’s mentality, how much of that was penance or morbid curiosity before it became her preferred calling? Death itself seems to spook, not intrigue her (post here); and finding answers to its causes soothes her worries and gives her peace. So, if that be the case, a fear of death-- or her actions contributing to a death-- would, perhaps, lead her to seek out a way to control it: interpreting, understanding, and translating Death in terms that are concrete and immutable. Hence, her career choice.  

Emily appears on the stairs in her floral onesie, blankly looking down on young Dana while clutching the railing. Scully, then, is tying her neglect of this case-- of boxing away this little stranger as an unfixable tragedy-- in with the preventable death of her rabbit. Which is even sadder, in hindsight, because her own unconscious was whispering that this child was doomed to a terrible end; and her guilty, self-conscious reflex was stating that it would be her fault.

She wakes up at this moment to a second phone call: Melissa again; and this points to four other conclusions: 

Emily Sim and Melissa are inextricably linked: either Melissa’s second phone call-- which Scully would have heard, though she hadn’t woken up yet-- was what triggered her dream appearance, or her appearance in Scully’s dreams triggered Melissa’s phone call. 

It makes sense why Scully ties a connection between her late sister and this little girl, and ends up believing her to be Melissa’s daughter. 

The truth, however, is a touch more complicated: Melissa Scully functions as the voice of Scully’s conscience-- more accurately, as its advocate, helping her sister to tune into and listen to it clearly. We see this exemplified by their dynamic in One Breath (post here) and The Blessing Way (posts here and here); and that hasn't stopped with her death. 

Melissa is advocating for Emily because she is a byproduct of Scully, not because Emily is a byproduct of herself. She is protecting her niece because she has always protected her sister. 

Scully wakes and answers her cell phone, overwhelmed when her sister's voice echoes over the line a second time.

“She needs your help,” Melissa repeats. 

“Who is this? Why are you doing this?”

“Go to her.”

So Scully does, at nearly three in the morning; and is, again, turned away by Mr. Sim. She doesn’t let the matter drop this time, booking it to the local police station and stirring Det. Kresge up to reopen the autopsy investigation. There she finds a picture of Emily that is identical to one of young Melissa… which brings up another set of observations. 

The child on the staircase in her memories was likely Melissa-- her shadow since childhood. 

The dream, however, changed it to Emily, either creating connections supernaturally or strengthening the ones she’d made unconsciously after catching a glimpse of the little girl in the Sim house. 

Bill has family photo albums in his house. The one Scully opens looks like an original, not a copy, with her mother's handwriting printed neatly inside. Perhaps these photos were mostly of his own childhood-- around the world, in Japan, and (presumably) before Scully was born-- and perhaps he was given this for safekeeping sometime after Paper Clip. With Melissa dead and Bill and Tara building a home of their own, Maggie probably thought they’d want this album for themselves. Scully, perhaps, probably even made copies for her mother and herself before it was shipped off, since she knew exactly where to look to find that particular picture of her late sister. 

I also have a personal theory: Bill Scully later reveals he has a photograph of Melissa that was taken during the months his little sister was abducted. He never shared this with Scully-- perhaps because he assumed it would dredge up bad memories (another indication of his gentler personality: not wanting to hurt her with reminders. And, of course, another indication of his meddling protectiveness.) But the fact that Missy had given it to him, had possibly let him take it while she was off-the-grid traveling up and down the West Coast, speaks volumes to Bill’s motivations. He has deep wounds regarding Melissa, too; and guards her memory fiercely, albeit silently. Her loss is harder for him to talk about than his own father-- he was even originally written to resent his youngest sister for “causing” Melissa’s death (though that scene was rightfully deleted and his character reworked, thank goodness.) 

After Scully finds out Emily Christine Sim was adopted, she calls up Mulder’s FBI contact (Danny, the basement gnome)-- not Mulder himself-- and asks him to send Melissa Scully's PCR results to San Diego, where she is: effectively keeping her partner out of the loop. Despite their history, Scully is alienating herself and her struggles again: perhaps because, deep down, she is afraid of what Mulder will puzzle together with her abduction, a dead sister, and this adopted girl. 

Without intending to, she falls asleep once more and is caught up in another nightmare: herself as a child, holding her father’s hand, while walking down the aisle to pay their respects to an open casket. As she approaches, the casket leaks water and blood; and after peering over the side, the body of Mrs. Sim is revealed-- and opens its eyes. Stumbling back, she realizes the hand she is holding is not her father’s: it’s Mr. Sim’s. But as he opens his mouth, Bill’s voice speaks instead: “Dana?”

Scully is roused violently from sleep, and comes face-to-face with her brother’s worried, bemused expression. 

Again, she dreams of death. 

Again, she dreams of death connected to Emily. 

Again, she dreams she must helplessly watch tragedy unfold. 

Up to a point, these dreams can be dismissed as her reality bleeding (heh) into fantasy-- the second phone call reminding her unconscious of Emily, Bill speaking through Mr. Sim-- but Scully doesn't give this line of reasoning a first or second thought. Why?

And just as her unconscious starts to turn over these complicated emotions, reflection is snatched away by outside interference. 

(As an aside, this episode proves that, if anything, Scully is a light sleeper; which also proves that Mulder is a quiet and sneaky dude, slipping in and out of her perimeters without setting off her sensory detectors.)

Bill watches her try to pull herself together, asking in feigned nonchalance, “This where you stayed the night?”

“Yeah,” she affirms, feigning nonchalance herself, “some of it.” Remembering her research, Scully quickly checks then closes her laptop, unwilling to share her suspicions with anyone just yet.  

“It’s supposed to be a vacation.” Bill is annoyed but trying to hide it-- and, while it isn’t his place to dictate how Scully spends her time, he does have a point (or half of one.) He sees Scully’s dedication to her work as dedication to her partner; and probably suspects that Mulder is putting her up to this. Yet, despite his abhorrence for the man or his methods, Bill never outright scolds Scully for her inattentiveness, and does try to have patience with her odd behaviors. Still, his annoyance is hard to extinguish; and he asks, “Whatcha working on that's so important?” to better understand why she’s ducking and dodging. 

Scully, once again, ducks his attempt. “Just, uh, unfinished business.”

Seeing that they’re at an impasse, he switches topics: “So, you up for joining us this morning?”

“Yeah, I’ve, I’ve,” she stumbles, working through a plan in her mind, “got a little work to do. Can I join you guys later?”

Bill scoffs, lightly, trying to maintain an upbeat rather than imposing attitude. “How are you gonna get around?”

“I’ll, I’ll rent a car.” 

He watches her go, good naturedly exclaiming, “Alright-- lunch!” When she doesn’t respond (and continues stepping away), he adds, “I’ll hold you to that!” She, again, doesn’t comment; and he lets her go, trying to shrug off their interaction with a glance at his newspaper. 

After a long day investigating shaky leads, she arrives back at Bill’s with the PCR results in hand. Right after discovering the similarities between her sister and Emily’s DNA-- reacting with shocked, bittersweet tenderness-- Maggie appears, catching her daughter in the thralls of discovery. 

“Dana? Are you alright?”

Immediately, Scully looks down, masking her demonstrative expression; and her mother sighs, changing the topic to other pressing matters.  

“It’s 2 o’clock in the morning-- where have you been all day?” Maggie scolds, shuffling forward in exasperation. “We were expecting you for lunch.” 

Now it’s Scully’s turn to sigh: this can’t be put off. “Mom. Sit down.”

Maggie complies, head in her hands: another round of bad news from Dana. 

“The woman who committed suicide--” she begins, letting us know that Scully and Bill had previously shared details of the case with Maggie and Tara, “has an adopted daughter. A three-year-old named Emily. I got a sample from Emily’s blood; and I had the lab run a test on her DNA. It’s called a PCR test. This,” she continues, handing the evidence over to her mother, “is Emily’s. And this… is Melissa’s, which we ran during her murder investigation.”

Scully’s face is tortured, her head bent-- an expression of utmost struggle and vulnerability (post here.) “They match.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, her mother asks, “What does it mean, ‘they match’?”

“It means… that this little girl Emily… is Melissa’s daughter.” 

Maggie looks up in disbelief. “It’s not possible.”

“You can’t deny that there’s a remarkable resemblance.” 

“Melissa was three-years-old when this picture was taken, she was practically a baby,” Maggie snaps, eyes flashing. “All kids can look the same at that age.” 

“Mom, it’s uncanny. Emily looks exactly like Melissa. That’s why I order the PCR test-- because her face may change, but her DNA can’t!”

“And that test is accurate?” Mrs. Scully presses, even angrier. 

“There is a 60% chance that Melissa is Emily’s mother. I’m gonna order a more comprehensive test-- an RFOP. It’ll take a couple of days, and then we’ll be sure.”

“Oh, I’m already sure--,” Maggie denies; and the root of her denial comes to the fore: “--your sister didn’t have a baby, she would have told me.”

“Mom. Remember about four years ago Melissa took off? She traveled up and down the West Coast-- we didn’t know where she was half the time.”

“You’re saying she was pregnant and she didn’t want us to know?”

“That was 1994. Emily was born that November. She could have given her up for adoption and none of us would have ever known.” 

Suddenly, Maggie is struck with another idea, softening under Scully’s insistence. “Dana, listen to me. I know what you’re going through.”

“Mom--” snaps Scully, hurt that her motives are being called into question. “This has nothing to do with what I’m going through.” But still, she does not offer further clarification-- does not tell her mother that she, too, is having premonitory dreams (post here.) Because, really, this is about what Scully is going through-- not solely her infertility, of course, but also her memories, remission, second chance at life, and (misplaced) guilt-- and she can’t wholly refute or deny her mother's claims.

When Maggie explains, “It has happened to me-- when your father died”, she loses ground on her conviction, doubting her instincts. It’s what Melissa warned her against in The Blessing Way-- “You’ve lost touch with your own intuition!”-- and what she tried to help her see and understand when Scully was doubting her choice to join the FBI. It’s what she finally learns, four years after her sister’s death, in all things (post here.) 

“It was a long time before he left me,” Maggie admits as her daughter struggles with confronted tears. This is a sore spot for both of them; but while Maggie has moved on-- “before he left me”-- Scully still struggles with echoes of the painful past. She cannot forget or let go as easily. “I saw him in my dreams. The phone would ring; and just for a moment, I was sure it was his voice. And, and you’re doing the same thing with Melissa-- you’re seeing her in this child. But that does not make this child my granddaughter.”

During this speech, Scully has been struggling with denial, doubt, tempted belief; and at her mother’s last words-- “We’re still connected to them, Dana, even after they’re gone”-- she tears up, conflicted. 

There are many, many points to consider in this conversation: 

Maggie’s nature is just as confrontational as Bill’s, but she’s raised her son to (mostly) butt out of business not belonging to him. 

Despite Melissa’s black sheep ways and hard-to-swallow beliefs, Maggie remains convinced her daughter would have told her if she’d been pregnant. And she's correct.

Maggie would have (per her own expressions of hurt at this possible exclusion) embraced a granddaughter out of wedlock. This falls in line with her first two children being conceived before marriage (if the show's wonky timeline is to be believed), her undogmatic support of Bill and Tara’s IVF pregnancy, and her excitement over the birth of her second grandson, William.

Scully reveals how closely knit she and Maggie were (and are): “Remember about four years ago Melissa took off? She traveled up and down the West Coast-- we didn’t know where she was half the time” couples the anxiety, worry, and frustration of Melissa’s disappearance in with her mother and herself. We've seen this closeness demonstrated in The Blessing Way’s deleted scene (post here) when Melissa's arrival ended the personal conversation between Maggie and her youngest daughter.

Scully is still struggling with trusting her own instincts, and will continue to do so until all things. And, as befits her pre-established pattern, she leaps into decisive change then begins to doubt and second guess her intuition and choices (post here.) 

Scully dreams, this time of a Christmas long past.

She and Melissa sneak down to the tree; and while she loudly exclaims, “Look at all the presents!”-- betraying her rapture over receiving gifts-- it’s her sister who shushes her (“Dana, be quiet; they’ll hear us.”) Grabbing a large box-- another peek at her gift goblin side-- she excitedly whispers, “This one’s for me!” Again, Melissa checks her: “You wish. That’s for Billy, you dope.” The girls continue rifling around-- Scully still amped over (supposedly) finding a Hotel California record, Missy still shushing her-- until they find their cross necklaces; and it’s then that Maggie appears from the shadows (“You don’t have to shake it, Dana. You can open those now”) and sits beside them.

While Scully is awed by her present, Melissa is ambivalent, politely thanking her mother but not really responding to Mrs. Scully’s speech: “Your grandmother gave me a cross just like that when I was about your age. It means God is with you, and will watch over you wherever you go.”

When she looks at her mother in thanks, younger Dana sees her current self in Maggie’s place. 

A few takeaways: 

Melissa is the ringleader, it appears, in this mischief making venture. While she is the older sister (and, therefore, has more bossing rights), she seems more aware of the danger of getting caught than Scully. 

Scully, in each of her flashbacks, seems to be a second mate to mischief makers: breaking their father’s shooting rules with her brothers and sneaking down the stairs on Christmas morning with her sister. She is already drawn to rebellion, even at a young age; and will soon begin to flirt here and there with striking out on her own-- smoking her mother’s cigarettes on the porch or describing her parents’ opposition to the FBI as "they though it was an act of rebellion." That streak continues with “other fathers”, kicking back against her superiors in defiance or shoving off Mulder’s ‘restrictions’ whenever she feels unappreciated. 

Melissa already seems detached from her mother’s beliefs, and is (most likely) only a year or two (or three or four) away from rescinding her faith. 

Scully, however, hangs onto Maggie’s every word: a child wholeheartedly devoted to hero worship-- one who trusts so implicitly that she ends up doubting her own opinions and beliefs. 

Scully’s necklace is markedly longer than the one she wears in canon. This presents us with one of two theories: that Maggie gifted her another one for her birthday, as she said in Ascension; or that Melissa gave her her hand-me-down when she left the faith. 

Scully loves presents. Loves. (Which works out, because Mulder loves to give them.) And Hotel California, apparently. 

The Revival was warned that Scully would not look good with this type of straight, flat bob. And yet, it persisted. 

Scully, again again, ties another dream into Emily: this time her own motherhood, gifting her younger self-- or her dream self’s daughter-- a personal family tradition. 

It’s Tara who wakes her up.

“Dana? I’m sorry,” she begins, her choice of words implying that she’s aware of Scully’s late night, “there’s a detective here to see you?”

When Scully descends, Tara is chopping food for breakfast, Maggie is serving Det. Kresge some coffee, and Bill is nowhere to be seen. He was awake early yesterday, so it’s natural to assume he’s already up and out-- maybe last minute preparations for their party later today? 

As she and Kresge move aside to privately chat, Tara and Maggie send them concerned peeks every so often. 

Of course, Scully ends up leaving. 

I want to touch on Emily Sim very briefly in this post:

After Mr. Sim is arrested, Scully hurries through the house looking for (who she presumes is) her niece. She finds her on the stairs, and the two face off blankly while Emily's father's pleas of innocence escalate off-screen.

When Scully leads the girl to the social worker’s van, Emily clings to her hand-- revealing nothing, but not unwilling to be in her care, either. Both are grim and determined; and while Scully softens as she tucks the little girl into her car seat-- “Let’s just get you buckled in here nice and safe, okay” is important; and will be discussed below-- Emily doesn’t start to brighten until she catches sight of the other woman’s cross. Without thinking, she reaches for the necklace-- a shiny present she wants to claim; like her mother-- without thinking-- again, like her mother. 

It’s searing in hindsight, knowing this tiny girl is doomed to die; but it’s also bittersweet in the moment as Emily exactly reenacts Scully's dreams and patterns of behavior.

And this leads me to a theory: with how each dream is structured, and with how Emily behaves in them, exactly as she does in real life-- always staring with large, knowing eyes and a somber, resigned expression as if she knows Scully-- I wonder if Emily is the one projecting these dreams. Whenever Scully remembers the past, Emily seems to burst through and center these memories on herself in the present. (And whether she means to or not, I wonder.) Her grandmother has prescient dreams, Melissa had sensing abilities, and Scully herself has had a fair share of psychic and supernatural experiences. I’ve theorized before that all humans have access to psychic ability because of their alien DNA (post here), but need to have a close connection to or brush with Death to unlock it (post here.)

And if that be the case, these dreams and premonitions centering Emily began to occur after Mrs. Sim’s death-- meaning, if that unlocked an ability in Emily (for whatever X-Files reason) then that could be working in tandem with Melissa’s phone calls. And if that be the case, Scully the Conduit (post here) was picking up both signals. Canon itself supports this supposition, though mildly: "You found her; and you saved her," says Mulder; "She found me," Scully corrects.

Scully reaches out to caress Emily’s hair (a mirror of Maggie Scully's maternal gestures) at the same time the girl reaches out to snag her necklace. Touched, and desperate to establish a connection, she asks, with wide eyes, “You like that, huh?” 

Emily doesn’t respond, staring, transfixed, at the cross instead; but Scully takes initiative anyway, immediately removing her chain and clasping it behind her ‘niece's’ neck. This act is a combination of many significant details, which can be summed up in two sentiments: passing on the family legacy to this newly discovered Scully, and surrounding her with God’s protection-- as Maggie had done when she was a little girl; as she did herself, seconds ago, by securing Emily's seat belt. In short, her actions are a marriage of different forms of protection: familial, physical, and spiritual. Scully extends all three to this child before she knows Emily Sim is hers. 

When it is time to go, Scully leans in with an assuring pout and promises, “I’ll see you soon, okay?” And Emily mirrors that pout, nodding up and down in earnestness.

They watch each other through the window, locking eyes as long as possible. 

At Bill and Tara’s Christmas party that evening, Scully can’t focus on the present. 

When Maggie tells her relaxing daughter-in-law, “Every year, my husband insisted on putting the angel on top of the tree by himself” and Bill, just returned from hobnobbing, teases his late dad’s masculinity-- “Man’s work”-- to her and Tara’s amusement, Scully remains distant and lost in thought. Bill looks down and notices her detachment; and, having reached his limit, asks, “Dana, can you give me a hand in the kitchen?”

Maggie immediately snaps her head over, knowing exactly what her son is doing; and Tara’s face drops, knowing exactly what her husband’s doing, too. Both women, it would appear, figure the siblings have grievances to air; but hope it won't get to insulting or catastrophic levels. They’re both adults after all, right? 

And that’s another interesting point: as uncomfortable as this shift has made Maggie and Tara-- even more so because Scully hasn’t fully returned from the cloud of her thoughts, and isn't clued in to what’s about to happen-- they’re not trying to mitigate or stop Bill. It would seem they, too, have criticisms of Dana’s behavior lately, but haven't voiced them for her and Christmas’s sake. We know this to be the case because of Bill’s accusations in the kitchen: Mrs. Scully has been sharing her daughter’s information with her son and daughter-in-law, likely in an attempt to smooth ruffled feathers or get them to understand what she’s going through. However, this, in turn, makes Scully feel judged and vulnerable; and, despite Maggie and Bill’s best intentions, she begins to retreat even more.

“What’s up?” Scully asks as Bill begins pouring himself a drink. 

“I need you to tell me what’s going on,” he says, voice light but concerned. 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not here, Dana, you’re a million miles away. I thought you came to see the family.”

Scully, caught, sinks into annoyed despair. “I did.” 

“Well, I thought that this other thing was resolved,” Bill huffs, becoming frustrated himself. “I thought you caught the guy that murdered that woman.”

“We did,” she affirms, trying to draw him away from shaky territory but unable to look up from the ground. 

Bill, as always, sees right through her: “Then it’s about the girl, isn’t it?” 

She doesn’t answer, determined not to-- but her eyes pop up after he passes by, realizing he must have gotten that information from someone.  

Conciliatory-- trying to prove he’s on her side, that she doesn’t have to ice him out, that he understands-- Bill softly confesses, “Mom told me.” Maintaining eye contact, his voice rises higher, almost cracking at the end, “You really think Melissa had a baby?”  

“Yes, I do,” Scully admits; and her admittance now-- an admittance born from, he thinks, a crazy partnership with a crazy partner who keeps invading their family time with selfish, questing demands-- irritates him completely. 

“She call you from beyond the grave to tell you that,” he mocks, voice edged with bitterness. 

At this sudden attack, his sister is instantly furious… and hurt, tightening her chin to prevent an influx of strong, complicated emotions. 

“Sounds like something that partner of yours would say,” he concludes, somehow shifting the blame entirely off of Dana’s shoulders and onto Mulder's while simultaneously-- and accidentally-- insulting her intelligence and abilities. 

Fed up with his misunderstanding, Scully insists, “It does not matter where that phone call came from. What matters is that there is a little girl who needs my help.” 

“This isn’t about any little girl, Dana,” he snaps, done with the pretense on both sides-- a pretense she is unaware of and confused by, tilting her head in astonishment at his blunt, “It’s about you.” 

Bill continues with his half-right, half-wrong blunders: “It’s about this emptiness, this void inside yourself you’re trying to fill.” 

And that is when he takes it too far: it’s one thing to be chastised about her inconclusive connections by a mother who understands, and it’s another to be reprimanded by a brother who doesn’t; and who constantly misreads her intent. 

But the truth is: they’re both in differing degrees of wrong here-- 

Scully has spent their joint Christmas vacation taking off at all hours of the day and night without a word. To the family, this is a slap in the face, especially considering she chose to fly out to bond with them during a new and intimate chapter of their lives. (Not to mention, one of them is close to her due date and up every morning making breakfast for her guests.)

Bill is not the only person who is frustrated: Maggie, too, keeps chastising her daughter’s flakiness. Maggie, too, outright fights Scully's theories and suppositions. While struggling with her own feelings, Mrs. Scully is also forced to mitigate between her daughter and her son's pent up emotions.

While it is certainly not his place to presuppose or judge, Bill is trying to understand his sister's perspective. If that isn't difficult enough, most of his assumptions are derived from is mother-- the exact same sticky situation as the cancer arc (posts here and here.)

Because Scully isn’t communicating with anyone unless she has to, the family is left to grapple with whatever information or interpretation they can gather or think up to explain her behavior. This leads to projections and assumptions: Maggie assumes Scully is seeing Melissa everywhere the way she saw her late husband; and Bill assumes Scully is struggling with an emptiness and void that he and Tara struggled with during their infertility journey.

And that’s where Scully’s fault lies: she assumes her brother wouldn’t understand, even if she told him. She is aware, to some extent, that Bill and Tara struggled with infertility; but she hasn’t stopped to learn the details. That’s understandable, too; but when Bill blunders in and gives her unsolicited advice, he is speaking from his own feelings and emotions-- not to chastise or finger wag at her. 

And that’s where Bill’s fault lies, too: he is given no direct answer of his sister’s feelings, so he projects his own onto her to humanize her actions. This, in turn, makes him impose his own thoughts, beliefs, and wishes onto her, as well: she, too, must feel and emptiness and void at not being able to have children; and that void must be guiding her to these actions.

And that’s the really messed up part: they’re both half-right and half-wrong; but the miscommunication from all sides is exacerbating the issue. Maggie pries open Scully and shares what she finds with Bill and Tara to soothe their feelings; this gives them a faulty understanding, and clams Scully up tighter next time.

In short: the problem is, Scully isn’t communicating fully; and her half-responses leave blanks for Maggie or Bill or Tara to fill in. And when they do communicate, everyone’s opinions and thoughts-- while well-intentioned-- careen away from each other and crash in a ditch.

 Without knowing where Bill is coming from-- and possibly not registering the vulnerability in his eyes-- Scully loses the last ounce of her patience; and, rightfully, sticks up for herself: “Bill, I don’t expect you to understand but I am not going to stand here and justify my mo--” 

“Dana?” Maggie cuts in, looking between both of her children. Called back to herself, Scully grits her teeth and looks away from her brother. “There’s a telephone call for you.” 

She leaves without another word; and Maggie studies Bill intently before following her out, reading from his face that the conversation ended in disaster.

After Mr. Sim’s staged suicide, Scully returns home to a warm, inviting fireplace, eyes misting at its likeness to her former childhood memories. She then notices the manger scene, a little child in the center of so much hope and intrigue. (There is a connection between Scully's journey and this manger scene-- no, not in the way you're thinking... at least, not exactly-- which I shall touch on in the next part.)

Bill pops into the room, voice tense as he asks, “When did you get back?” 

Startled, she stares into his eyes a few seconds in silence; then, seeing he intends no harm, simply replies, “I just got back.”

“Well, you’re just in time,” he amends, diffusing his feelings for the moment. “I was on my way over to the neighbors. Mom and Tara are already there.”

Unable to keep up even a whisper of facade, Scully ducks her head, nodding with pinched eyebrows and a strained face. 

“What?” he asks, softly. “What happened?”

Her head shoots back up, eyes wide and turbulent-- was she that obvious?-- as she questions whether to tell the truth. Her eyes tear up and her mouth slightly tightens before Scully admits to Marshall Sim’s death. 

Bill is sympathetic-- empathetic, even, as he asks, “Do you think it has something to do with that little girl?”

His tenderness and openness to hearing her thoughts, and to intelligently connecting a few dots on his own, releases her strain. “I think it might,” she assents. 

He pauses, turning inward, before pronouncing, “Dana, I have to show you something.” 

Intrigued, Scully follows her brother up to the nursery-- her room-- where he digs out a photo of Melissa-- one she'd never shared with her sister. 

After handing the picture over, Bill slumps his way to the window, head down, shoulders inward.

“Look at the date on the back,” he says heavily. Missy’s death still strongly affects him, so much so that touching this part of his past is draining to Bill. Which must be particularly affecting, considering his desire to replicate every detail of his childhood, down to the same rooms, for his own nuclear family.  

The date is Oct. 7 - 94; and when Scully flips it over to check, Bill releases a weary sigh. 

“Does Melissa look pregnant to you in that picture? It’s about four weeks before the girl was born.”

This is interesting: the Scully family, as a whole, has a problem with communication-- Scully with sharing her thoughts, her job, her conflicting beliefs; Bill with his struggles and weaknesses. To reveal that he knew Melissa wasn’t pregnant in 1994, Bill would've had to dredge up that photo as proof. Instead, he’d hoped to avoid that-- just as Scully had hoped to avoid sharing her own findings and suspicions about Emily.

After their argument, Bill, it seems, wanted to sweep the disagreement under the rug and enjoy Christmas. That resolution, however, fell through after seeing Scully's crestfallen face. And after hearing his sister mention murders disguised as suicides, Bill realized his reticence was no longer a priority if Dana was putting her life in danger because of a false dream.

“Bill, it doesn’t prove anything. Melissa didn’t have to get pregnant to have a baby, there’s--” Scully grasps for an idea, eyes wandering, “--there’s in vitro fertilization, there’s surrogate motherhood--” 

“Dana,” Bill cuts in. “Listen to yourself. You’re creating this whole scenario to fulfill a dream.”

“What dream?” She knows, deep down, what he means; but hasn’t wanted to touch this thought directly. 

“To have a child.”

Again, Scully struggles with self-doubt: his reasons sound valid, and logical. Are the dreams and the phone calls and the 60% chance just projections, as her mother said, as her brother is saying? (Which he got from their mother, no doubt.) 

“Look, I…” Bill pauses, stopping and starting his own difficult admission, “I understand. I know the need--” he tears up and looks away as the words spill out, “--Tara and I tried for years. But making this girl,” he concludes, convinced in the righteousness of his pursuit, “into Melissa’s daughter is not the way. You’re only going to end up hurting yourself.” His face is iron, his warning absolute. 

But though his words waiver, they cannot convince; and Scully won’t let the possibility go, not when she still has doubts. More honestly, not when Emily calls out to a part of herself.

The doorbell rings, and Bill sighs, walking away to answer it. The second he leaves, her face wilts, mouth and nose twitching against tears. 

“Hi,” he greets; and “Hi,” he is answered. 

“I’m here to see Dana Scully.”

“Oh, may I ask, um--”

“I’m Susan Chambliss from the County. It’s about the adoption.”

At that truth bomb, Bill looks up at his sister, shooting her a “Dana?” just as her face contorts in mild panic, caught. 

Gliding past Bill’s question, she swiftly says, “Hi. Thank you for coming in on Christmas Eve,” and rushes past after one last glance at his discomfited expression. 

Here is where we get an incredibly telling look into one Dana Scully’s psychology. 

Her application for adoption is denied, and she nearly breaks down in tears as Susan kindly lays out the reasons why she shouldn’t consider adoption, stating, “You’re a single woman who’s never been married, or had a long-term relationship. You’re in a high-stress, time-intensive, and dangerous occupation-- one that I sense you’re deeply committed to. And one which would become overnight a secondary priority--”

Scully looks up, either to contradict or persuade, but bites back her reply until the other woman is finished.

“--to the care and well-being of this child. I’m not sure this is a sacrifice you’re prepared to make.”

And perhaps Scully isn’t, either: she’s rushing things (just as she later rushes the IVF, posts here and here), and is troubled that not only would she have to ease up on her dedication to her occupation-- to the X-Files, to Mulder, even-- but that she hadn’t considered she’d have to. 

“Well, it’s one that I’ve given a great deal of thought to,” she explains, nearly losing the battle to her tears. “To be honest, I’ve started to question my priorities since I was first diagnosed with cancer.” 

This revelation-- and the fact that she is struggling with her infertility and was loathe to share these struggles with Mulder this past week-- points to two possibilities:

Scully was, perhaps, looking for a way out, and Emily provided that. This isn't likely, considering the stunned reaction she has when internalizing the consequences for adopting her high-risk 'niece'.

Or Scully is misinterpreting the signs again: doubting herself, her choices, her commitments; doubting whether her sister should have died, whether she should have gotten cancer, whether she should have been stripped of her fertility.  This is not only likely but also transparently the case: she's rushing into these decisions, despite the danger, despite the fulfillment her work provides, despite the loss of her close working relationship with Mulder. Scully's staring down an endless line, and thinks Emily is the new 'right path' she faces at every crux of her life.

Scully has been struggling with the fact of her infertility for months-- so much so that she only told her mother, and then only under added pressure. Again, she is trapped in a cycle of hyper-fixation-- that endless line, post here-- doubting herself and laying unnecessary blame at her feet. We know Scully commits to then wants to backtrack on her commitment-- in other words, she has attachment issues (post here)-- and looks to other signs or other voices or "other fathers" to tell her what to do, be it dating Daniel Waterston or breaking up with him or recruiting to the FBI or doubting her recruitment or partnering with Mulder or doubting her partnership with Mulder or getting cancer or losing her faith or gaining her faith or recovering from cancer or losing her fertility or finding her 'niece'. In short, she probably sees this miracle 'happenstance' as a second chance, or a sign from God or the paranormal or the supernatural that her sister sanctions; and thinks Melissa-- who she ‘failed’-- is relying on her to save her daughter. A new mission, a new appointed path. And though it doesn't feel right, she tells herself, "There's only one right thing to do."

And yet, the thought that she’d have to give up her work shakes Scully to the core: she is in tears at the thought, but she is also in tears at losing this last chance. (Mulder senses this, too, in Emily; but, as he tells the judge, doesn’t feel it’s his right to deny a mother her child.) 

“And I feel like I’ve been given a second chance,” she admits, nailing my previous points home. 

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve, I’ve never allowed myself to get too close to people. I’ve avoided emotional attachments. Perhaps I’ve been so afraid of death or dying that any connection just seemed like a bad thing. Something that wouldn’t last.” Her dreams make more and more sense: the rabbit and the snake and the coffin and her beloved vocation. “But I don’t feel that way anymore.”

This is the reason why she brought a cheese platter to Mulder’s room in Detour; and this is the reason she took family time off and has avoided reaching out: she is caught in another cycle of self-doubt-- questioning their partnership, questioning her abilities, questioning the X-Files's endless line. But what Scully is missing is that she hasn’t taken family time off, not really-- it’s not her nature to do so, for long. Even her own vacation later this season (Chinga) is interrupted by a case, which she solves without resentment. She needs the work just as much as Mulder does-- and she knows this. But that doesn't stop the toxic pattern of self-sabotage.

“You are aware of Emily’s medical condition. I want to stress to you, Dana,” the social worker continues, “Emily is a special needs child. According to her doctors, her condition is incurable. She requires constant care, both medical and emotional. The good news is, you have first hand experience of grave illness. The bad news is, you’d have to relive it through the eyes of a child.”

Again, Scully almost breaks-- tears nearly spilling over, mouth crumbling. That is hard: she still avoids mentioning her past illness whenever possible. But what else, she believes, can she do? 

“I realize that,” she nods, wiping a tear away. “And I feel like I’m ready.” 

Scully is being tossed about by remission expectations and fertility expectations and familial expectations and her own impossible expectations; and is grasping at motherhood as the fix-it solution she thinks she needs. The reality is… she’s not ready for parenthood. She would love Emily with all her heart; but she would have had to turn from the path she chose, the one that feels right, the one she still needs to learn and grow.

There is one last dream in store for Dana Scully: Melissa joins her for a late-night couch chat, wanting to know why her little sister is up.

“You worried about Quantico, or who gets the most presents this year?” she teases, a little joke over do-gooder Scully probably being the goodest girl all year for Santa; or a delicate poke at her insanely competitive, insanely jealous younger sister. 

“I guess I’m afraid I’m making a big mistake. I could tell Dad sure thinks I am,” Scully confesses-- how easy it appears she was able to confess back then, before international conspiracies and scientific, rigorous adherence. 

“Oh. Well, it’s not his life, Dana.”

“Yeah, I know that. But y’know, when I started med school, it felt so right. It just seemed like that was where I was supposed to be. Then… and then by the time I graduated, I just knew it was wrong. And now the FBI feels right. But what if that’s wrong, too?” The self-doubts and endless lines were there from the beginning. 

“There is no right or wrong,” Melissa replies. “Life’s… just a path. You follow your heart, and it’ll take you where you’re supposed to go.” This motto defines Scully and her life choices.

“I don’t believe in fate. I think we have to choose our own path.”

And here is the voice of her conscience, her intuition, her guide: “Well, just don’t mistake the path with what’s really important in life.” 

“Which is what?”

“The people you’re going to meet along the way. You don’t know who you’re going to meet when you join the FBI. You don’t know how much your life is gonna change. Or… how you’re gonna change the lives of others.” 

Scully is being pointed once again back to her path-- the FBI-- and the people she changed there-- Mulder. As much as she craves a life with Emily, it isn't meant to be: something feels off, conflicting; but it also feels right. Because she is here to save another life-- Emily-- before going back to hers. She still has answers and truths to uncover for herself before she can leave this life, this path, with a good conscience. 

Tara wakes her from this last dream; and Bill and Maggie swoop in behind her. 

“Did Santa come?” he teases. 

“Santa’s still here,” Tara returns, pointing at Scully. 

“She always had to be the first one up on Christmas-- couldn’t wait to get into those presents,” Bill parries, cuddling up to his wife and making her and Maggie laugh. 

Mrs. Scully swoops to the couch and snuggles up to her daughter; but before anymore distractions (ahem, Bill) can continue, Tara waves him off and exclaims, “Okay, enough pleasantries! I’m dying to know what’s in this box!” 

Bill launches to the tree, excitedly passing presents to his wife, mother, and sister-- even the forgotten Scully sibling (Charlie) sent a present. For once, everything seems to be going smoothly.

A brief note on Charlie: as already mentioned here, his lore seems to be spotty at best. But there is one consistent theme: ever since they were boys, Charlie stuck around and played with Bill (per One Breath’s flashback); and that seems to have carried into adulthood. He sent a message through Bill in Memento Mori’s deleted scene, and he sent a present for the family this year through Bill again. Whatever the status of his relationship with the Scullys, he seems to always use with his elder brother as his mouthpiece-- like Melissa had been for Scully, before her death.  

“Don’t open anything-- don’t open! I’ll be right back!” Bill chirps as he rushes out of the room to answer the doorbell. 

Of course, it’s a man with a package for FBI Agent Dana Scully. Bill rushes back while she signs for then reads it; but at her prolonged silence, the room becomes still. 

“What is it?” asks Maggie, worried. 

“It’s a DNA test on Emily Sim’s blood.”

“What’s it say?” Bill asks, voice devoid of amusement as he rises to his full height. Maggie, too, is similarly unamused. 

“It says definitively that Melissa is not Emily’s mother--” Mrs. Scully looks down, anticipating unpleasant emotions for her daughter, while Bill maintains eye contact, brows lowering in stressed pity, “--but that they found striking genetic similarities between Emily and Melissa. So many that they… ran a test against another sample that they already had.”

“What sample?” Maggie questions. 

“Wh-what are you trying to say?” Bill prods-- he knows, or is afraid he knows. 

“According to this… I am Emily’s mother.” 

We’re not shown the Scully family’s reaction to this news; but the next time they appear is in court, slipping out of the judge’s chambers after giving testimony on Scully’s behalf. 

Mulder is waiting outside on a chair when Tara leads the way, approaching him trepidatiously with Bill right behind her and Maggie lagging back. As Bill steps forward, visibly fuming over the other man’s presence, Tara flashes Mulder a tight smile-- taking neither side, but remaining polite. Her husband stands his ground, forcing Mulder to go around; and stares after his sister's partner with hatred and contempt. 

The last time we see the Scully family is at Emily Sim's funeral.

Alone, Scully sits in the church, withdrawn as figure after figure passes by. Maggie's gentle hand on her shoulder rouses her-- another the one person who can understand the loss of a child.

Tears glistening in her eyes, Mrs. Scully asks, “Are you ready?”

“I think I’ll get a ride back with Mulder,” Scully replies: choosing her place not with her "normal" family but with her partner-- a woman in search of the truth, where she knows she belongs.

At least, as Melissa said, until the next thing feels right. 

They embrace in understanding, then Scully pivots to give her brother an affectionate hug goodbye. He leans his face down into her shoulder, burying his nose there while she envelops him fully. 

An important note: these are the first hugs Scully has initiated-- a gesture of comfort for her mother and brother-- and both are hugs goodbye (which will be discussed below.)

But Scully doesn’t linger long: she drifts over to Tara, who is standing behind her husband, ashamed of her own good luck and happiness. Scully beams at her sister-in-law and the baby-- she will not taint little Matthew’s arrival with sadness-- and is faintly aware that Bill is carefully watching her face, relaxing only when he sees her able to face her nephew. 

Greeting the baby with a kiss, Scully whispers, “Bye bye Matthew” as Tara’s face nearly crumbles in tenderness, relief, and sorrow. 

“We’ll see you in awhile, okay?” Tara says, and Scully assents, “Okay.”

This, then, means Scully is leaving from the church directly to the airport: ‘Bye, bye, Matthew’ and the long hugs and well-wishes only point to one conclusion. If they expected her back at the house, their goodbyes wouldn’t be so final. And that means the mystery of Emily’s coffin will never be revealed to the family-- another of Scully’s well-kept secrets. 

Maggie stays behind to trade one last smile with her daughter before following the new parents out, and Scully gives one back: she will be all right. 

So many meanings can be gleaned from Mrs. Scully's final glance back: she knows her daughter wants to heal alone, and respects her; she grieves for her daughter's loss, and she empathizes with that pain. But most importantly, I think, is that she is proud of Scully.

Scully will be all right... until her peace is spit upon posthumously: Emily's body has been spirited away. No proof of her only chance at motherhood (for now.)

MENTIONS, APPEARANCES, AND OTHER LOOSE ENDS

We hear about the Scully family twice in Season 6: You have a brother who hates me,” Mulder insists, trying to convince his partner he is who he says he is (Dreamland); "Mulder, call it whatever you like-- I've got holiday cheer to spread. I've got a family roll call under the tree at 6:00 a.m.," Scully insists when he lures her to a haunted mansion on Christmas Eve (How the Ghosts Stole Christmas.) It's obvious, then, that the events of Emily have not torn apart these relationships.

Season 7 features one mention-- in En Ami, Scully lies about going away for a family emergency; and Mulder is on familiar enough terms to call up Maggie and ask about the family emergency. It's obvious that Mulder's closeness with Scully's mother has changed between seasons; and, though he called her likely out of concern for his partner, he came away from that phone call with enough calm (it's implied) to not frighten Mrs. Scully out of her wits, unlike every other call before.

And lastly, for me, Season 8: Maggie appears at Mulder’s funeral (Deadalive)-- but doesn’t stay as long as Skinner (likely because she knows her daughter wants to be left alone)-- and her daughter's (begrudging) baby shower (Essence.)

"You know it would be a whole lot easier for everyone if you would just tell us the sex, Dana?" Maggie prods as she hurries about the party area, arranging and rearranging balloons. When Scully doesn't respond, she yells from the other room, "Did you hear me?"

"Yes I heard you, Mom, for about the thousandth time-- you can wait. Didn't you have to wait with us?"

"Well," her mother rambles on, "I just know it's a boy. I can just tell by the way you're carrying-- it's a boy."

"Well, see, you obviously don't need me to tell you because you obviously already know," Scully baits, letting her mother stand shocked and overjoyed for a few seconds without correcting her assumptions.

"Then it's a boy?"

Without replying, Scully stares her down while turning on the tap: purposefully withholding the information with a straight face and twinkle in her eye.

"Oh, it's the least you can tell your mother considering everything else you're keeping secret."

They're interrupted by a knock. The arrival of Lizzie Gill reveals another layer of Mrs. Scully's meddling: she's signed up a baby nurse to help her daughter, without her daughter's permission. Scully doesn't outright jump at the offer, but does get comfortable around Lizzie (while ignoring her mother's pointed "See?" glances) enough to later accept her assistance.

This moment-- and other similar moments like this-- paints a rather interesting picture of their dynamic:

Scully is sharing less with her mother than she used to-- or, perhaps, Maggie is realizing how much her daughter keeps secret.

Yet, it doesn't seem to disrupt their relationship: Maggie is glad to participate in any way she can, enthusiastically peppering the apartment with decorations and her daughter with questions.

Maggie hired a baby nurse for Scully: why? Apparently, she thinks Scully would be unwilling to have her mother stay over while settling into early parenthood, despite her own "retirement" and widowhood. The nurse, in question, would function as hired help for practical needs; meaning, she wouldn't be staying over, either. This establishes that Mrs. Scully is alerted to and fully supportive of her daughter's strictly enforced boundaries.

"Considering everything else you're keeping secret" means that Scully (and Mulder) have not discussed his role in her baby's life at all with other people. At. All. And that it was Scully who decided on this continued secrecy, refusing to answer any questions during her entire pregnancy. Mulder's followed in her footsteps-- and probably likes that others are hindered from asking him questions or handing out back slaps-- while everyone else has been left to make assumptions. Including Maggie Scully.

Unfortunately, Scully stumbles upon Lizzie swapping her baby vitamins; and, having eaten some already, rushes to the hospital to have a full examination. Maggie waits with Mulder in the hallway; and after the doctor gives her patient an all-clear, Mrs. Scully rushes in and asks for her daughter's forgiveness.

"I'm so sorry, Dana." Seeing that Scully is frozen in place, trying to master her emotions, her mother initiates the embrace-- as she always has-- and continues, "This is all my fault. I brought this into your home. You know I would never let anything happen to you," she adds, a repeat of her words in Wetwired, while looking down at her daughter's baby bump. "Would never knowingly let anybody hurt you."

Scully keeps her head down, but assures, "I know, Mom."

Studying her face, Maggie adds, "I'm so worried about you. You keep everything so bottled up." This, then, paints Maggie's overbearing meddling and thousand-and-one questions in another light: anticipation over her grandchild, yes; but also frenzied worry and concern for her daughter, as well.

Again, Scully doesn't answer, nodding along as if to soothe her mother rather than admit her reticence; then looks aside to Mulder before his attention is pulled away and consumed by Skinner. However, it is important to note Maggie was included in this hospital visit: we know she's no longer on Scully's paperwork (hasn't been since pre-One Breath, that we're aware of; and hasn't shown up for any of Scully's S8 medical emergencies, which proves she was completely in the dark.) And we know Scully would have called Mulder, regardless, to help apprehend Lizzie Gill once the other woman was caught. But Scully chose to call up her mother and ask her to the hospital: perhaps because she feared the worst, the premature death of her baby. It's one thing to fear miscarriage before you've told your mother about the pregnancy (Via Negativa), and it's another thing entirely to lose the baby after your mother is invested in its arrival.

And that's it for Maggie Scully, Bill Scully, Charlie Scully, Tara Scully, or Matthew Scully's appearances! Or so I decree, as someone whose stops canon at Season 8~.

I leave Season 9 and IWTB and the Revival for those who want to take up the mantle and explore the Scully family for me: it wouldn't be fair to this series to spend the last few parts picking apart my grievances.

CONCLUSION 

That's it for the Scully family! Can you believe we've come this far?

Only two parts left: the tragedy of Emily Sim, and the failure and success of Scully's (and Mulder's) journey to parenthood.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[fieriframes]

[SO WE GOT THIS ALL MIXED IN. WHAT'S NEXT? SOME PINEAPPLE JUICE... AND MORE PINEAPPLE JUICE. YEAH. QUILIBET LIBRORUM XXIII DE ILLIS IN PARTE SERMOCINATUR? YEP, GOTTA GET THAT TANG. WU-TANG. THERE YOU GO.]

[musiclandoux]

: 🎼💜🎼

Incubus

Part 2

[rowonlgc]

he slides into the dorm easily, having been there so many times before and he looks really pleased with himself as he settles the box on the bed. he’s here enough that he feels pretty comfortable in the dorm, not even pretending to hide or anything as he heads out after his deed has been done.

on the box is written FOR HAN ROWON ONLY in black sharpie, and he grins to himself as he leaves, pleased.

inside the box, there are some gummy candies, a vintage sweatshirt, a small keychain and a card with some writing inside.

hope you like the candy jagi rowonnie~ it’s mmm bitable :D we need another movie date soon btw 🩵 iseul

  there’s one thing that immediately catches rowon’s attention the moment he opens up the box.  for now, he promptly decides to unsee it.  the second item, though, garners a much different reaction.  his eyes brighten as he secures the very cute yet very murderous cat to his keychain and gives it a satisfied jingle.  it’s like having iseul in his pocket.  ( not that iseul is in any way murderous, but let’s just say it wouldn’t shock rowon to see him running around with a knife. )

  he keeps the card propped on his desk and sets the sweatshirt aside after trying it on  ( oversized, perfect for layering, a thoughtful gift – or maybe it’s iseul’s way of telling him to shut up about the cold ).

  and finally ..

  rowon stares at the teeth gummies.  the teeth gummies stare back.  he stares even harder, squinting at the absolute atrocity.  teeth gummies.  gummies that are shaped like teeth.  it’s so bizarre that he can’t help but laugh.

SENT TO › 조이슬 01 / 01

  ✉️ › twilight marathon   ✉️ › tonight.   ✉️ › you can hold me during the scary parts   ✉️ › just bring yourself, i got snacks covered.   📸 › [  MENACING IMAGE OF THE TEETH GUMMIES  ]

[bunniwords]

໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ ALIBI 🌀

part xxii - masterlist - part xxiv xxiii. bless her heart

bunni speaks — eep!

︶︶ 　 ˚ ᡴꪫ synopsis — you are known for your brain rot anime content on twitter. so much so that you caught the attention of txt’s soobin on his secret stan account and became mutuals. what will become of this new friendship?

when you watched the time hit six on your watch, you let out a deep breath. you were walking to the hotel, and if someone saw you right now, they’d probably thought you were either going to rob a bank or you were back in 2020 during peak covid. you were masked up with dark shades and a hoodie over your head partially because you were knowingly meeting up with a celebrity but also no amount of ice could help depuff your eyes or face from how much you cried the day prior.

the amount of times you were going to shoot soobin a message to tell him that you couldn’t make it should’ve told you to cancel but despite of it, you were curious to what he had to say. although, you could feel yourself walking into another rejection when you see the front entrance. when you step foot into the lobby, your eyes found him instantaneously and his eyes already on you.

you could choke from how he looked at you. he was like a lost puppy scurrying over to you. he definitely looked guilty but your mind was too occupied with other thoughts to notice.

as he got closer to you, him telling you how he liked your letter replayed in your head. was it too late to leave? probably, considering he was leading you to the elevator so the two of you could talk in a more private setting.

“how was your day?” he asked you.

you leaned back at the walls of the elevator, staring down at your feet, “i went to work.”

“y/n… i—“

he was interrupted when another group of people came into the elevator. soobin choose silence until you reached his floor and the silence was deafening. seeing you in person, he could tell you were not in the mood to be here. he’s never seen this side of you. it was clear there was a wall in front of you this time. a barrier that you built just so he couldn’t get through.

reaching his room, soobin let out the biggest sigh. he peeled his mask off, fully expecting you to do the same, but you only stood there… in full gear, not even bothering to take off your backpack.

“you can take off you backpack and be comfortable.”

“oh, i didn’t think this was going to take long,” you said almost too coldly for him to handle before peeling the straps off your shoulders.

soobin felt his lips quivering. the distance between the two of you felt even further than when he was in seoul. he regretted never telling you that he likes you, but it didn’t matter because he wanted to fix it.

“are you avoiding me?”

that’s not… exactly what he wanted to say…

you didn’t say anything. if you said no, it’d be a lie. if you said yes, you might burst into tears… again.

soobin pouted. he felt so frustrated and upset. more so at himself than you. all he had to do was say three simple words two nights ago. how could it have slipped his mind?

“i like you,” he blurted out which was met with silence on your part, but he continued to ramble, “a lot. like crazy. more than gojo. more than anything. i should’ve said it two nights ago. i should’ve kissed you two nights ago. i was so nervous but so happy when i read your letter i completely blanked out. oh my god, and when the guys said i messed up. i had no idea. i didn’t want to move too fast because i thought i’d scared you and—“

“soo—“

“no, i’m not done yet,” he stopped you from saying anything because he felt the need to explain even further, “when you weren’t responding to me, i felt so dumb. when i saw that picture of you and your friend, i was so jealous. just one day without speaking to you felt like torture. i’ll tell you everyday. no, every hour that i like you so you won’t doubt my feelings again.”

“soo—“

“and—“

“hey—“

“i like you so much. i’m sorry if i hurt you. i didn’t mean it. i really didn’t mean it,” soobin’s eyes started to water, “please forgive me.”

he couldn’t see through your sunglasses but your eyes softened seeing how much he panicked and your heart was thumping so fast from hearing his sudden confession.

“wait, don’t cry. i’m gonna cry,” you said as you took a few steps towards him, feeling your own tears about to well up, “i forgive you, okay?”

“really?” his eyes perked up, glistening with his tears and a shear peak of hope, “because i really like you and would love to show you how much i do before i have to leave new york.”

his personality on screen also seemed very on par with who he was in front of you and who he has been for the last few months. you almost felt bad thinking the worse when you two last met; you had believed he played with your feelings by sending you mixed signals, but soobin seemed so innocent and so pure when he spoke to you.

you stared at his eyes through your dark frames and nodded.

“can i please take off your sunglasses and mask? i want to tell you that i like you while looking at your whole face…”

you laughed and broke eye contact to take them off yourself. soobin took a step closer. his fingers nervously swept the strands of hair out of your face, causing you to peek at him through your lashes. he caressed your cheek with his thumb before he leaned down and softly pressed his lips against yours.

your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest. the amount of relief you felt knowing that he was reciprocating your feelings had you feeling like you were floating.

“i like you,” soobin only parted from your lips to say those words, but even then, his lips were still gently brushing against yours and you could feel his breath on your skin.

everything about that moment was electrifying. it felt like a 4th of july celebration with the sparks flying around the two of you, and when he reconnected your lips together again, you were actually melting. your legs felt like putty and you weren’t sure how much time you had before you lost their support.

“w-wait,” you tried saying but soobin’s lips couldn’t seem to part from yours, “soo, ple… ase.”

stealing a few more pecks, he finally freed you from him.

“sorry,” he shyly smiled.

you let out a chuckle before wrapping your arms around his waist, hiding your face into his chest.

“i like you too.”

[moamidzyism]

gross! (c.yj)

ʚ♡⃛ɞ r/RelationshipAdvice: what do you do when you bump into your ex-situationship when you come home from college?

fluff + angst ౨ৎ ୨୧ choi yeonjun x fem!reader, spinoff of yuck! featuring all members of txt, yeji and chaeryeong of itzy, sungchan of riize started. mar 16 ended. apr 28 status. completed [masterlist • reblogs + feedback appreciated]

profiles: bitches who brunch no more mr. nice guy himbo brigade

i. comeback season ii. i thought she died iii. blast to the past iv. ding dong the witch returns (written; 661 words) v. sour by olivia rodrigo vi. fuck it we ball vii. (500) days of summer viii. please send the floods ix. mass disbandment x. in the sense that xi. team y/n xii. nothing to worry about xiii. the band's back together, sort of xiv. all fun and games xv. shift in the air xvi. bad idea, right? xvii. burning bridges xviii. we're good xix. eternal sunshine of the cluttered mind xx. beginning of the end xxi. resolutions (written; 563 words) xxii. one last chance xxiii. our year of falling

bonus!

ask the characters: google form ask the characters: answers part i part ii yeji's words of wisdom ask the characters: take two: google form ask the characters: take two: answers part i part ii

taglist: @boba-beom @silvergyus @wiisoob @isabellah29 @yutacchin @amanda4004 @dejavu-jun @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @tinyelfperson @wolfytae-exe @hyunjinvoid @thejadeazalea @yawnzsof @wccycc @ryunjin0 @my313 @nikilvrfvr @beaabz @taytayjustherelol @soobsfairy444 @soobieboobiedoobiedaboobie @headlockimnida @coconutjjun @itzzz-yerin @snghoonluv @tyunzonlystar @impureperhaps @calumsfringe @bunnyeonny @luvtyunn

this taglist is closed! fill out this form to join my permanent taglist!

[bengals-barnesbabe]

#Track 9 Masterlist

Pairing: Joe Burrow x RnB Singer!Fem Reader

Summary: When the secret relationship between a famous singer and a popular quarterback is revealed no one could be happier. But when lyrics to an unreleased song are released, the strength of their relationship is questioned and tested when fans, reporters and exes start coming into the mix. Will you get your happy ending or is this the beginning of the end?

Main Masterlist 🤍

Character List🩷🧡🖤

Warnings: 18+, mentions of sex, foul language.

Last Updated: 5 November 2024

*slow updates*

a/n: #track9 taglist is open! if you would like to be added to my taglist for this series comment 'tag me🧡' and you'll be added. If you want to be taken off at any point dm me -babe :)

* ~ flashback chapter 🩷 ~ social media post

🧡 ~ private dm

🤍 ~ group chat

🖤 ~ written chapter

Chapter I: Valentine’s Day Tease

Pt.1: 🩷 Pt.2: 🧡

Chapter II: Clothes Are So Obnoxious

Pt.1: 🩷 Pt.2: 🧡

Chapter III: Tell Me

Chapter IV: You Love Me

Chapter V: #Track 9

Pt.1: 🩷 Pt.2: 🧡 Pt.3: 🤍

Chapter VI: Crazy 4 Me

Pt.1: 🩷 Pt.2: 🤍

Chapter VII: Kisses 4 My Exes

Pt.1: 🩷 Pt.2: 🤍 Pt.3: 🤍 Pt.4: 🤍 Pt.5: 🩷

Chapter VIII: Real Shit

Chapter IX: #TMYLM

Pt.1: 🩷 Pt.2: 🤍 Pt.3: 🧡

Chapter X: Training Camp

Chapter XI: Press Week

Chapter XII: prayer for the broken

Chapter XIII: ‘i love you, goodnight’ tour

Part1 :🖤 Part2: ��

Chapter XIV: Domestic Tingz

Chapter XV: ‘The Reynolds Pamphlet’

Part1: 🩷 Part2: 🤍 Part3: 🧡 Part4:🤍 Part5: 🩷

Chapter XVI: Robbed*

Part1: 🖤 Part2: 🤍 Part3: 🖤

Chapter XVII: Operation Tiger*

P1: 🩷 P2: 🧡 P3: 🤍 P4: 🧡 P5: 🤍 P6: 🖤

Chapter XVIII: Run Joey Run*

Part1: 🩷 Part2: 🖤

Chapter XIX: #WLT*

Part 1: 🤍 Part 2: 🩷 Part 3: 🤍

Chapter XX: Wish I Never

Part 1: 🧡 Part 2: 🩷 Part 3: 🤍

Chapter XXI: Let’s Be Strangers*

Chapter XXII: Messy Gal

Chapter XXIII: Tour Countdown

Part 1: 🩷🤍 Part 2: 🤍🩷

Chapter XXIV: Mr. Perfect

Part 1: 🖤 Part 2: 🩷

Chapter XXV: Showtime

Chapter XXVI: Homecoming

Chapter XXVII: Champions

more coming soon ♥︎

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.* ° :⋆ₓₒ

Misc/Blurbs/Extras

#Mars V Chase

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... J'onn broke the news that Danny thinks he's going to be forced into combat in exchange for his medical care. Everyone disliked that™.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

COME GET YOUR NEW ART HERE 💥🍳!!💥 IT'S FIBERCRAFT!!Shoutout to @rainbowbeansprout for crocheting a fic accurate injured ghost Danny!! That's outstanding!!

💚👻👽👻💚

So, Wally broke all of the bones in his legs yesterday.

Which is…not ideal. Still. He’s pretty used to it at this point, though, and he’s already mostly healed.

It’s just that. Well.

…The rest of healing is kind of…time-consuming.

So Wally’s in basketball shorts and a mask and a t-shirt he’d started using as pajamas when he was in college and he’s on the med floor of the Watchtower, and yet another physical therapist is helping him bend his leg back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, because he’d tripped in the middle of the Speedforce and busted everything hip-down.

So. (Back, and forth. Back, and forth. Back…) This sucks.

“Do we have to do this every time?” Wally asks, as if there isn’t a team of medical professionals kept on hand to deal with Superpower-wrought Super Medical Problems.

“Do you have to shatter your legs every time?” the PT asks back wryly, which, hey! The pressure pressing up against his bare foot is an additional stressor to the sass. “Bend this more for me, Flash. You can do it.”

Wally grumbles, and pretends the angle his leg is bending at doesn’t make him wince. Wow is he going to have to build his flexibility back up again.

The physical therapy room looks just like any other gym, basically; a lot of squishy mats in playful colors, a lot of grippy tape; a LOT of wipeable vinyl surfaces that can be sanitized at a moment’s notice. It smells kind of weird and plasticky and kind of like alcohol cleaner.

It’s not his favorite room in the Watchtower, but, eh. It could be way worse. What’s unusual is the whirrr of the door opening and closing in one of the private care rooms for another patient, since, you know...HIPAA and all that. Wally assumes. Or is it costume confidentiality once you leave Earth's atmosphere...?

Usually everyone knows who’s stopping in for PE through the sheer power of the Justice League gossip groupchats. (There’s at least nine. Wally’s in four of them. He aspires to be in two more by April.) There hasn’t been a big fight that requires long-term medical care in a while, and there’s no one Wally can think of who’d need this kind of recovery.

Something’s buzzing at the outside of his awareness, though. It sounds kind of…

Wally perks up. “Hey, the alien kid’s here!”

The PT holding Wally up at the waist hums. Her name is Cindy, and judging from their previous conversations, she thinks that Wally is the dumbest man alive. “There’s a million of those, Flash. Which one?”

“The one who bit Superman,” Wally adds.

Judging by the face Cindy makes, this clarifies nothing.

“Most recently,” Wally stresses, carefully not wincing as his leg gets stretched out again, only to be pulled back into position as tightly as before. “OW. Cindy, you’re killing me.”

Cindy makes a strangled noise. She asks: “What, again?” which is how Wally remembers that he got torn back out of the time stream not all that long ago, and it may be a big gauche to joke about your own death with the people who care about it.

Whoops. Wally winces. “…Nevermind?”

The other PTs make various fussy and annoyed noises, but the alien kid is wheeled onto the other side of the medical floor’s only gym. (The actual training floors are on another level. Wally wishes he was there. Alone.)

(Without four PTs clinging to his legs at all times.)

Wally waves. It’s a nice enough gesture, and now that the alien-phantasm-turned-flesh-and-blood-boy is more physically embodied than he used to be, the boy even deigns to carefully wave back.

The kid’s PTs—Wally thinks at least one of them is from the team that supervises Bart and his super-powered-leg-problems—end up encouraging the alien kid’s chair round to the soft mats where the kid can lay down. He ends up in the exact same position Wally is—horizontal on the floor, legs forcibly pinwheeled by enthusiastic but firm PTs.

Wally can physically feel the kid’s astonishment and discontentment buzzing in the air as he figures out what’s being done to him. Wally can’t help but laugh.

The kid angles his head towards the speedster. His face still looks—well, it looks…bad. It looks bad, unhealed and still threatening to weep neon green body fluids; there’s a wet, living crack running up and down his face that makes eye contact kind of hard. His hands are all spidery—this kid can probably hold and grip things, but the previous breakage have left his hands a little too easy to splay, a little too oddly-angled. He’s too thin to keep himself fully upright for long. When he looks at you, his eyes shake like a poorly lined-up television signal.

Martian Manhunter had said that he’d once looked like a healthy, happy human child. His current form is a reflection of the injuries he’d experienced since.

...What a thing for a kid to go through. Wally wouldn’t wish this sort of injury on anyone.

“­Alright, up you go,” the PT above him—Rhys, Wally remembers at the very last second—orders, and Wally is prompted to let the man help him back upright. “Over to the bars for you. You think your legs are up to bearing that kind of weight as you try out walking?”

“…Sure,” Wally lies to Rhys. It’ll be fine. Probably. By the time he gets over there, his legs might have already speed-healed by then. “Hand me the—?”

“Yeah, yeah, here’s the crutches. Don’t destroy yourself trying to make this happen, okay?”

So Wally gets set up at the glorified playground equipment in his least restrictive gym clothes, one long iron bar under one arm, and one long iron bar under the other. Two full-size physical therapists spot him as the speedster completes the most strenuous task available to him at the moment: walking across a very short distance without putting his full weight on his legs.

Wally puts one shaking leg in front of the other. The steps are slow. The urge to zoom to the end of the little bowling lane he’s stuck in—and therefore shatter his legs under the speedforce, again—is irresistibly temping.

Healing sucks. And Wally’s even got the longer end of the stick.

In the end, Wally sticks the landing. He is unreasonably sweaty. He is miserable. But he makes it to the end. Every one of the witnessing PTs applauds as if this is a great success. It’s literally not. It’s the inevitable result of pushing himself too far for the third time this year.

A question buzzes through the air, fluffing through Wally’s hair and the little fine hairs up and down his body. It’s nothing but inquisitive—whatareyoudoing whatareyoudoing?

Wally lets the PT maneuver a chair underneath him. It gives him enough breathing room to turn his upper torso, and he ends up catching the eye of the little alien kid in the corner. He’s sat on a yoga ball, two members of his medical team and one of the kids’ PTs trying to get his attention back to his exercises.

“Hey,” Wally realizes suddenly. “Your casts are gone!”

The kids’ legs are actually bare, which Wally’s never seen before. They’re twiggy, sure, stretched taut over a bone frame, and discolored and pale, but they’re legs. Wally hadn’t even known the alien had possessed legs until he’d formed a physical body months and months ago.

“Dude, that’s great!”

Happy/smug/proud vibrates through the room, making Wally’s teeth buzz. The kid smiles through a half-split lip, and bounces on the yoga ball ever so slightly.

“Good,” the kid says, surprising Wally, his PTs, and the kid’s usual medical team. He was talking already?! He thought J’onn had said—

“Hurt?” the boy asks, concern/concern flooding through the air. Oh. Right. He’s probably here for his busted legs; it would make sense that by virtue of the setting, Wally would be injured too.

And, sure, Wally busted his legs, but he at least heals with all the swiftness of the speedforce. “Meh.” Wally waves off the question. “I’m fine. It’ll be quick for me; some rehab and some lunch and a few days off, and I’ll be in shipshape.”

Wait. Wally’s eyes scrunches up. Is using wordplay appropriate with this kid…?

“Pain?” the kid asks, and turned his attention to the closest member of his medical team. “He pain?”

The medical professional sighs, which finally clues Wally in that the man is no longer masked. Hey, the kid is out of medical isolation! “The Flash has his own medication, thankfully. His doctors know what to do.”

The kid frowns. He doesn’t get it. He looks at Wally, and he looks at the staffer, who shrugs. “It’s the usual indicator word he uses for pain medication. He’s wondering if you’re hurt enough to need some.”

Wally hums. On one hand, it’s sweet that the alien kid is worried about him. It’s a huge step upwards from the alien who spent all his time hiding in abandoned meeting rooms and occasionally biting Superheroes.

On the other hand, the kid doesn’t just look worried that Wally might not be getting care; he looks scared.

Something happened to this kid. Something he can't shake off.

Wally breathes in, and breathes out.

—And breathes in sharply when Cindy starts wiggling his feet. She doesn’t respond at all to his glare, because she is a professional, and he is not a big baby of a superhero.

Mean.

“I’m fine,” Wally finally responds, trying to alleviate the kid’s concerns through sheer vibes-telepathy alone. Who knows if it’s working, but it makes Wally feel better about trying at the very least. “I’ve got my own team to fix me up, and they do a good job of taking care of me. Even if they’re bullying me at my most vulnerable.”

“Anything for you, boss,” Cindy volleys back cheerfully. “Gimme your other leg.”

The tension in the air slowly dissipates. The kid doesn’t stop shooting occasional looks at the unadorned, half-out-of-uniform Flash, but he does let Bart’s little PT team get to working on stretching out his previously-bound now-physical legs and getting him upright—if only for a few seconds at a time, balanced precariously by humans who actually touch his back and arms and hips and legs.

Wally’s session wraps up before the kid’s does. He’s not in any rush. He gets onto the walking crutches Rhys leaves out for his temporary use and lopes over to watch, occasionally hooting and applauding when the kid pulls off something no one’d been sure he could do.

The double handed high-five Wally offers him at the end is punctuated with shaky eye contact, two working hands, and a green-threaded beaming grin.

*

Diana cheerfully digs into her kebab lunch, plastic cutlery pushed to their maximum limit before threatening to break under her prodigious strength. “You know, Batman,” she starts, beaming, “My charge gave me his name the other day.”

Bruce sets down his muenster-ham-and-whole-wheat sandwich mid-bite. “I’ll need to hear everything,” he says immediately, to which Diana tuts.

“Oh, Batman, I could never break his trust like that,” she says, sweet as anything. She finesses a bite of lamb from the skewer and takes a neat bite.

“…Wonder Woman,” Batman says.

“Hm?”

“Diana.”

“Is there something you needed, Bruce?” Diana asks, pleased with herself. There genuinely is very little that could be done with a vague description of a now-altered human form and a first name alone; besides, she genuinely does feel that hearing the boy’s name come from others’ lips would be upsetting for him. Danny offered his name to Diana alone, and so it shall remain until hers alone he offers it to others.

Still, she is not above bragging.

“I need information.” Bruce’s face underneath his mask is stone.

Diana dips a second chunk of lamb into a little container of tzatziki sauce. “Well, then,” she points out, “Shouldn’t you spend some time building rapport with my charge, then?”

The feared Batman of Gotham, father of a half-dozen highly trained heroes, bristles like a wet cat. The demeanor is almost comical. He knows what he looks like to non-Gothamite children. He knows his suit will make this fight for common familiarity an uphill battle.

Diana smugly works through her lunch and ignores Bruce’s silent brooding as he does the same.

[rollingsins]

all hers, epilogue

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: Tara and YN try their hand at some healthier habits.

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, mention of violence. Smut.

word count: 5.3k

a/n: it's been a wild ride. thanks for all who have come along. all hers is over, but I will still be writing gf!tara drabbles in the same universe - maybe some college oneshots in the drabble files. Until then: enjoy the final chapter! :)) 

As the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months, slowly, the pain subsides.

Your normal? It’s potentially forever gone. It shouldn’t be a surprise, at this point.

Once you’d just been a teenage girl, crazily in love with another girl.

Who turned out to be a serial killer. Who’d somehow turned you into a killer.

Who’d made you cry, and laugh and love harder than you’d ever loved in your entire life.

In the grand scheme of things - the scar on your belly is probably the least of your worries.

But that doesn’t stop you toiling on it.

It always seems to be the way, doesn’t it? Worrying about the things that don’t really matter.

You worry nonetheless.

“It’s pretty,” Tara murmurs in comfort when you’re staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted slightly, eyebrows pinched in dismay.

It’s not pretty.

It’s wiry and long and stems from the tip of your bellybutton down to your navel.

“It’s hideous.” You say, voice a little fraught.

It’s hideous and permanent.

You’ll never be able to wear a bikini again. You’ll never be able to take your shirt off again without being reminded of it.

Of her.

The woman who had tormented you for weeks.

The woman who you’d tormented for weeks. The woman whose son you’d taken from her. The woman who’d repaid you in mental scars to last a lifetime.

A belly scar to last a lifetime.

“It’s beautiful,” Tara says, pressing her lips to your shoulder, “It means you’re alive.”

She squeezes your hips, then lifts her own shirt.

“And it matches mine,” She says, eyes shimmering, “Matching knife wounds. Like soulmates.”

You snort.

Because of course Tara tries to make stab wounds romantic.

But to her credit - it works.

Your heart sings.

Soulmates.

Because that’s what you are.

“Who needs a wedding ring, right?” You say, biting your lip, insecurities suddenly fading.

Tara entwines your hands, lifts the back of your hand to her lips.

“You do,” Tara says, “And you’ll have one. Soon. I promise.”

You pull back.

“Not before-“

“College,” Tara says, rolling her eyes, “I know, babe.”

You press a lingering kiss to her cheek.

“I just don’t want to be one of those couples who rush into marriage and fall apart the moment they turn twenty-one.”

“That won’t be us,” Tara whines, and then she pouts, “Plenty of high school sweethearts get married right after high school.”

You groan.

“Tara, we talked about this already-“

“I know,” Tara says, voice hasty, “I’m just excited. I want you to be Mrs. Carpenter already.”

“Mrs Carpenter, huh?” You say, ignoring the fluttery rush that blooms through you at the thought, “And what if I want you to take my name?”

Tara cocks a brow and considers this.

“I don’t care, babe, I’ll change my name to garden gnome if you want, as long as I get to be your wife.” She says after a moment.

You smile. Squeeze her hand.

“You’d suit it,” You tease, “But Mrs and Mrs Carpenter has a nice ring to it.”

Tara tilts her head hopefully.

“So, maybe a high school wedding?” She asks, voice sly, “Mrs Carpenter would look good on your college application forms.”

You press a warm kiss to her lips.

“There’s no rush, babe,” You tell her, “And I need to save up. Get you a pretty ring.”

Tara squints.

“I’m proposing first,” She says immediately, “You promised, babe.”

You roll your eyes.

“Yes, you baby, I know.”

Tara tilts her head, seemingly satisfied.

You press a kiss to her lips. She’s cured your insecurity, for now.

But a new feeling gnaws at the bottom of your stomach.

Dread.

As you realize what comes next. You try to keep your voice light. Lighter than the heavy pit at the bottom of your stomach.

“Come on,” You say, trying and failing not to sound anxious, “It’s time for therapy.”

-

Dr Colmann is a five foot woman with long, flowing blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.

Her office is bland. Gray walls. Little decoration.

Like she wants your attention on her.

You’d met her first, a few weeks ago. Like a pterodactyl scouting out a potential nest for her baby.

Your situation is tricky - there’s only so much you can tell her.

And you’re no doctor - but even you know surely it’s impossible to diagnose an illness without knowing all the symptoms.

“I want to get something out of the way,” You’d said after a long moment, clearing your throat.

Dr Colmann had looked over at you, pen tilted and ready to write. With all the intimidation of a woman who was about to change your life.

“I’m aware my girlfriend is…” You had paused, trying to think of the right word, “A little… possessive.”

Dr Colmann said nothing.

“I know that, and that’s why we’re looking for help.” You’d bitten your lip, nervous, “And I’m also sure the first thing you’re going to tell me is to leave her. But that isn’t going to happen. I love her. And she loves me. We’re looking for coping methods. I want to help her feel secure. But I will not break up with her.”

Dr Colmann had just listened.

Her silence, if possible, made you all the more nervous.

“She’s not abusive or anything,” You’d clarified, hastily, “She doesn’t hurt me. She just gets… jealous.”

“And what does she do when she gets jealous?” She’d asked, finally breaking her silence.

“Um-“ You’d said, voice a little high. Memories flashed before you like nightmares and you’d been entirely grateful your thoughts couldn’t be seen.

“She lashes out. Not at me. At other people.”

Dr Colmann scribbled something in her notepad. Long, wiry, black inky marks.

You’d squinted, trying to make up the words, but she’d looked back at you before you’d had the chance.

“Do you have any examples?” Dr Colmann prompted.

You paused.

You had a fair few of those.

None of which you could disclose.

“Little things,” You said, “I used to play soccer. But I had to quit because Tara thought some of the girls might become interested in me.”

You chew your lip.

“And… I was just in the hospital. She got jealous of the nurse.”

“The nurse?”

“She tried to… give me a sponge bath and Tara freaked out.”

Dr Colman stared.

You swallowed. The words out loud somehow seemed even more ridiculous than they are.

“How did she freak out?” Dr Colmann asked.

“She tried to…” You swallowed again, “She didn’t want the nurse to touch me again. Not even to change my bandages.”

Dr Colmann pursed her lips.

“I told her that was stupid,” You’d said, hurriedly, “But when she gets like that, nothing can stop her. She calls it The Rage.”

Dr Colmann tilted her head.

“The Rage?”

You’d nodded.

“Yeah. It’s like… it’s like something takes over her. Like a demon or something. Something she can’t control.”

Dr Colmann had closed her notebook. She’d looked over at you, surveying. You’d blinked back, eyes wide, surely screaming help me, or something to that effect.

Then, she smiled.

“When can I meet her?”

-

You’re no less nervous the second time.

You greet Dr Colmann with a tight smile, draw Tara down into the seat next to you. Your knee bobs up and down, unable to quell the tide of anxiety rising deep within you.

Please, you think, a little desperate, please help her.

As Tara and Dr Colmann exchange pleasantries, you blink. Too many times.

Like you don’t know how this is going to go. The worst case scenario flashes before you: Dr Colmann in a body bag.

Tara in a jail cell.

You in a jail cell.

Never able to touch her, or hold her, or kiss her ever again.

You need therapy, the little voice in your head leers, judgmental, not being with Tara is worse than a woman dying?

“So, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, when you’re all seated. With all the cheeriness of someone who isn’t aware you’re imagining her as a corpse.

“Tell me about The Rage.”

An awkward silence settles over the three of you.

Tara shoots a hesitant look towards you.

You squeeze her hand and nod.

Then, she looks over to Dr Colmann.

“It’s an anger thing,” Tara mumbles, not looking her in the eye, “I’ve seen shrinks before, none of them can fix it.”

Dr Colmann tilts her head.

“And what did these other doctors do?” She asks, “Anger management classes? Medication?”

“Both,” Tara says, “Nothing ever worked.”

Dr Colmann hums.

“I’ve read through your file, Tara,” She says gently, “Fourteen different therapists across the state. That’s a lot of doctors. Especially for such a young girl.”

Tara assesses her. Her face is tight, guarded. Like she’s not sure if she can quite trust her.

Dr Colmann scribbles something in her notepad.

“Lots of kids have problems with anger,” Says Dr Colmann, “But anger is just a symptom, like any other emotion. From what YN has told me, anger isn’t the problem. Sharing is the problem.”

Tara frowns.

“Plenty of children have issues with sharing,” Dr Colmann continues, “Usually, it’s the parents who stamp it out. But not always. I see in your file your sister used to bear the brunt of most of these anger issues.”

Tara folds her arms.

“Not always,” She says.

“But most of the time,” Says Dr Colmann, pointedly. She squints, reading through her notes, “It says here you attacked your sister when you were four years old because she tried to play with one of your Barbie dolls. Then again, later that week for taking a bigger slice of pie.”

“Four year olds are allowed to have boundaries, aren’t they?” Says Tara, defensively, “That Barbie was mine.”

“And YN? She’s yours too?” Asks Dr Colmann, evenly.

Tara blinks.

“She’s my girlfriend.” Tara says, diplomatically. The question is a trap, one she’s determined to avoid.

Dr Colmann tilts her head.

“And you don’t like when other people play with her? Is that right?”

Anger flickers through Tara’s features. You bite your lip, and squeeze her hand. Try to keep her grounded.

“I suppose not.” Says Tara, voice tight.

“YN told me about the nurse,” Dr Colmann says, “And the soccer team. You made her quit? Why?”

Tara looks over to you, a little helpless.

“I didn’t make her quit,” She says, slowly, like she’s being very careful with her words, “I just… suggested it. Strongly.”

Dr Colmann makes a noise of dissatisfaction.

Then returns to madly scribbling on her notepad.

Tara frowns again, looking self-conscious.

Dr Colmann looks up.

“And what if someone on the soccer team had been interested?” Dr Colmann asks, “What would you have done?”

You avert your gaze.

Kill them, is the answer.

It’s already happened.

More than once.

Tara shifts.

“I wouldn’t like it.” Tara says.

“No reasonable person would like that, Tara,” Dr Colmann prods, gently, “But what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Says Tara, sounding aggravated, “Not let her see them anymore.”

“And do you think that’s an appropriate request?” Dr Colmann asks, “Do you really think you should have control over who your girlfriend associates with?”

Tara narrows her eyes.

“YN would do it for me,” She says, “We’re in a relationship. Relationships are about compromise.”

“That isn’t compromise, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, gently, “That’s you demanding she do something and her complying. Do you not trust her?”

Tara blinks.

She looks over to you, then back to Dr Colmann.

“Of course I do,” She says, voice soft, “It’s other people I don’t trust.”

“And what do you think these other people are going to do?” Dr Colmann asks.

“I don’t know.” Tara says, voice small, as if she’s never really thought that far ahead.

She looks like a little lost puppy. You��want to wrap her in your arms and tell her you’ll never talk to anybody else again if that’s what she wants.

You resist.

Healthy wife, happy life, is what you tell yourself instead.

Dr Colmann’s face washes with sympathy.

“Jealousy is pointless, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, voice gentle, “Worrying is pointless. If YN is going to cheat on you, she’ll cheat on you. If she’s going to leave you, she’ll leave you. There’s nothing you - or The Rage can do about it.”

Tara blinks.

“I-“ She says, as if Dr Colmann has just spit in her face “What?”

Dr Colmann sits forward in her seat. Her notebook discarded.

“What you need to do - is trust. Your girlfriend loves you. Clearly. She wouldn’t be here with you if she didn’t.”

Tara frowns.

“You’re afraid of losing her,” Dr Colman says, eyebrows knit, as if Tara is a particularly difficult puzzle she can’t quite get her head around, “But why? We’ve already established she loves you. She wouldn’t be here with you if she didn’t.”

Tara blinks. You soothe a finger across the back of her hand. Resist the urge to press a kiss to her pretty forehead.

You let the doctor do the work.

“Have other people you loved left you, Tara?” Dr Colmann prods, gently.

Tara’s shoulders tense.

Dr Colmann waits a moment.

“Who?” She asks, "Your Mom? Your Dad?”

“Both.” Tara says, voice small, “They both left me.”

Your heart aches.

If you could - you’d sucker punch the two of them right now.

It isn’t an option. Instead - you grip her hand tight, offer her a small smile of encouragement as she speaks.

Tara swallows.

“My Dad tried to fix me,” Tara says, “For years. I was an angry kid. They could never figure out what was wrong with me. Eventually he just… gave up. He walked out on me and My Mom and my sister. Left us, just like that.”

“That must have been very traumatic,” Says Dr Colmann, “How old were you?”

“Thirteen.” Says Tara, “My Mom never left. I mean, she did. She threw herself into work to cope with my Dad leaving. She started going on these long business trips. But she never officially left.”

Dr Colmann offers her a small smile, “And that’s why you get so jealous, is it Tara? You’re afraid YN will leave you? Like your Mom? Like your Dad?”

Tara hesitates.

She looks down at her hands.

“Yes.” She says, after a long moment.

“Baby,” You say, voice hushed. Tara squeezes your fingers.

Dr Colmann hums.

“That makes a lot of sense, Tara,” She says, her voice kind, “That gives us something to work with.”

She closes her notepad, offers the two of you a reassuring smile.

“Your anger - we can work through that. We can figure out some coping methods. But the main problem here isn’t anger, Tara. It’s trust. I know you said you trust YN but you’re still scared. Deep down you’re scared she’ll abandon you, just like your parents did. We need to work through that.”

“Is it something we can fix?” You ask, a tad desperate.

You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d promised Tara you’d never leave her.

And each time it seemed to fall on deaf ears the moment The Rage was invoked.

“We can try,” Dr Colmann says, “I can try. And it’ll take some hard work. But Tara, it’ll only work if you’re open to it. If you’re open to changing. Is that something you can do?”

Tara thinks for a moment.

And then she nods.

“Yeah,” She says, “I want to do it. I want to be different. For you, babe,”

She squeezes your hand. Thinks hard.

“And for me too."

-

You’re silent the entire way home.

Tara too.

She grips your hand so hard you think it might fall off at one point. It’s only when she pulls into the driveway, she speaks.

“I didn’t scare you off, did I?” She asks, chewing her lip as she looks over at you, “With all my… problems.”

“Never, baby,” You say immediately.

You lean over to kiss her cheek. She relaxes.

“I’m going to need a lot of therapy, aren’t I?” She says, sounding worried.

You press another warm kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll be with you the whole way,” You assure, “I'm not going anywhere, Tara.”

You hesitate.

“You know I’m not like your Dad, right?” You say, “Or your Mom. I’m not going to leave you.”

Tara offers you a small smile.

“I know, babe,” She says, “At least in theory, I know.”

You press a kiss to her lips.

“I guess I’ll just have to remind you then,” you say, “Everyday. I love you. You’re stuck with me. I’ll say it until you believe me in theory and in practice.”

Tara rests her forehead against yours.

“Okay,” She says, “And keep saying it after that, okay babe?”

You kiss her.

“Deal.”

-

Your Mom’s still in the hospital.

Her leg had been amputated after the attack, and the procedure hadn’t been easy on her or your Dad. She’d come home after two weeks and then been admitted once more when the wound became infected.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask her now, chewing your lip, phone pressed to your ear.

Tara finishes up the dishes, setting down the washcloth to nestle in beside you, squeezing your hip comfortingly.

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” She says, “Will you come and visit tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there,” You promise, “Sam is going to pick us up after school.”

“And everything’s alright at the house?” Enquires your Mom.

You were staying at Tara’s place until your parents came back home, a decision that was quickly agreed on, for once.

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” You assure, “Sam’s working now, but she’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

Your Mom hums.

“And Tara’s there with you, isn’t she?” She asks, sounding a little worried, “You’re not alone?”

“Tara’s here,” You say and Tara kisses the back of your neck, “You don’t have to worry, Mom.”

“Is that Tara?” Asks your Dad through the phone, a little gruff, “Can I speak with her?’

“Dad wants to speak to Tara, YN, bye for now,” Says your Mom, “See you tomorrow.”

You barely get out the goodbye before you hear your Dad’s voice once more.

“Tara?” He asks.

“It’s me Dad,” You say, and he makes a noise of vague disappointment.

You roll your eyes.

“We’re fine, thanks for asking.” You say.

“Yes, yes, I heard you speak with Mom,” He assures, “Put Tara on the phone.”

You hand off the phone to your girlfriend and pry yourself out of her grip, busying yourself with playing the leftovers into their containers.

“Hello, Sir,” Says Tara, the way you might speak to the President.

She bobs her head, eyebrows knitting.

“Yes, I did see the 49ers play.”

You huff.

Tara averts her gaze.

“Yes, I did think they played like a bunch of seven year old girls.”

You roll your eyes once more.

Tara’s newfound friendship with your Dad is better than the alternative, at least. You’d lived the alternative.

It hadn’t been much fun.

“We’re okay,” Tara promises, suddenly, “I have every door locked down, alarms set and cameras operating.”

Your Dad murmurs something down the line you can’t hear.

Tara smiles, and then reaches for your hand.

“I’m not letting her out of my sight, Sir, you don’t have to worry,” She says, “I won’t let anyone hurt her. I promise.”

She hangs up not long after.

You should be used to it by now, the flutter in the pit of your stomach every time she gets protective, or calls you hers, but you’re not.

Butterflies cascade through your belly, branching out to the tips of your fingertips where they settle. You curl in around Tara and press your lips to her neck.

She smells good. No perfume, just the tinge of her skin and her coconut body wash.

You squeeze her hips and nip your teeth against the nape of her neck.

“Oh.” Tara sighs as you slip your fingers into the waistband of your jeans. She leans back into your touch, titling your head to capture your lips.

“Really?” She asks, a little excited.

You laugh.

You’d not had sex in a few weeks, hardly in the mood. Your wound aches most days, and the rest are spent really remarkably unsexy, despite Tara’s constant reassurance you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

She turns in your arms, pressing another kiss to your lips.

“Sam won’t be home for hours,” You murmur against her lips, “Just you and me. The way it should be.”

“Your stomach doesn’t hurt?” She asks, a little soft. Her eyes swim with concern, “We can just watch a movie, if you want?”

You shake your head.

She looks good. Her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup, her spill of freckles poignant, her pretty lips pouty and red and kissable.

“I want you, baby,” You murmur, nuzzling your nose to the side of her face, “Do you want me too?”

You don’t have to wait long for a response.

She presses a searing kiss to your lips.

“Do you even have to ask?” She says, biting her lip.

“No,” You smile, “But I want to hear you say it anyway.”

“I want you,” She says, immediately. She’s excited again, you can tell by the way her eyes flicker, “I want you all the time.”

“Come take me then,” You murmur against her mouth.

She doesn’t have to be told twice.

She leads you up the staircase, walking backwards. Her mouth fused to yours, her careful hands roaming every span of skin she can get her hands on.

She helps you onto the bed, far gentler than her usual gig of wild hands and wild lips. Instead, this time she touches you as if you might shatter into a thousand pieces.

You make an annoyed murmur as she pulls your jeans down your legs. It feels like an age, the way she softly untangles the button and the zipper. Her touch is light, so un-Tara.

When she finally pulls your legs from your jeans, you almost cry out of frustration.

“Babe, I’m not going to break.” You tell her, but it falls on deaf ears.

She’s pressing her lips to your thigh, tiny, gentle touches as she pulls your underwear down your legs at a pain-stakingly slow pace.

“Don’t rush me, babe,” She says as you reach down to help her, “And lie back. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I feel fine,” You say, tilting up to meet her kiss, “Please hurt me.”

Tara huffs, drawing back slightly.

“It’s not fair to say things like that when you know I can’t.” She pouts, “The things I want to do to you will almost certainly rip your stitches.”

Arousal coils deep in your belly.

Then annoyance.

“Now who's not being fair?” It’s your turn to pout.

Tara nudges her lips to your neck.

“I’m going to make love to you, baby-girl,” She promises, her eyes dark, “That’s more than fair.”

You tilt your head up and press a lingering kiss to her lips.

“Besides. If I rip your stitches I think your Dad will have something to say.”

You wrinkle your nose.

“Let’s not talk about my Dad when we’re getting naked, babe,” You suggest.

She hums in agreement.

And then you reach for her shirt.

“Off.”

If she’s going to spend the entire evening getting your underwear down your legs, the least she can do is give you something to look at, you reason.

Your touch is impatient.

You pry off her jeans like there’s a time limit. Strip her of her shirt and her bra until she’s hovering naked above you, making your mouth water.

And suddenly, what little patience you had left is gone.

You rise up, starling her.

“Babe-“ She protests, but you can’t be reasoned with.

You tilt her around, until she’s lying back on the mattress, nudging her bare legs apart with your thighs.

“Too slow, my turn.” You murmur.

Your lips are hungry.

You kiss her, fierce, groaning slightly as your hands get to work. They work down the curve of her hips, to her thighs. You squeeze her, a little rough, and then move your hands to take her nipples between your fingers.

She gasps, her hips involuntarily jerking up towards yours. You detangle yourself from her lips, leaning down to press hot kisses against her neck.

She threads her fingers through your hair, tugging, tugging, as she moves against you. She’s still holding back, being careful not to touch your stomach.

You can tell by the way she’s groaning it’s hard for her.

And so you make it easy.

Your lips move down from her neck to her breasts. You circle each nipple once, then twice, before you’re taking her in your mouth, curling your arms around each of her thighs.

“Baby,” Tara murmurs, “Baby, your stomach-“

You release her nipple with a wet pop and a frown.

“I’m fine, babe.” You say, and it’s true.

It aches, slightly, but it always does nowadays. No matter what you’re doing.

And if it’s her you’re doing, at least the ache is dampened by the forest fire of arousal surging through your veins.

You return to your pilgrimage down her body.

Your lips graze her belly-button, your tongue slips down over the jut of her hips to the crest of her thighs.

She sighs, seemingly satisfied as you slip down further. Moving your body to settle nicely in between her legs.

Then, she tilts her head up, biting her lip.

Her eyes are hesitant, though encompassed with want.

“Tell me if it hurts,” She says, “Tell me and we can stop. Or…re-adjust.”

You nod, impatient.

“Alright babe, I will,” You say, raising an eyebrow, “Can I go down on you now?”

Her cheeks flush red with arousal.

“Please.” She whispers.

She’s beautiful, as ever.

You press your lips against the soft skin of her inner thighs, grazing your lips just gently. You use your tongue to work your way inwards.

Your breath catches in your throat the moment you taste her. Wet, syrupy, bittersweet goodness.

You lick it up, greedy for more. You press your lips to her folds, use your hands to spread her open for you. You lose control of your tongue.

One minute you’re ready to tease, the next, you’ve worked yourself up too much.

Your tongue moves hot across her folds and then down to her entrance. Your top lip brushes her clit and she sings.

A low moan that vibrates through the room.

A moan that indicates it’s been far too long since you’ve touched her like this.

You apologize with your mouth.

Low strokes of your tongue at her entrance. The quiet murmur of your own moan as your tongue moves up to circle her clit.

Lazy, slow, movements.

Then fast.

Like you’re changing your own mind too quickly.

You settle for writing words with your tongue.

babygirl, is what you spell out against her clit.

Your name. Her name. You connect them with a heart.

And then: mine.

Tara lets out a quiet moan as you take her clit between your lips. Sucking gently until her thighs are gripping like iron bars around the side of your head and her nails against your scalp bruise.

You give up on using the alphabet.

You slip two fingers inside her, sighing as she encases you. She’s tight and wet and begging for more.

You give it to her.

Curl your fingers up in just the right way. Lap your tongue over her clit just the way she likes.

And then she’s gasping as she tightens around you. She cries your name in a breathy moan as she cums hard around your fingers and mouth.

It’s always over too quickly, you think briefly as you reluctantly slip out of her. You need to learn patience. You need to learn how to tease.

But there’s something about her, and you don’t know how she does it. You just have to give her what she wants.

She lets out a happy sigh as you climb up her body and press your lips to her forehead.

She’s still a moment, but you know better. She recovers quickly.

In less than a minute she’s shifting.

You groan as your back hits the mattress.

Her hands slip down to your thighs, gripping you like she has an agenda. And she does. You know it by heart.

First, the gentle touch of her lips against your neck.

Then she’s sliding your underwear down your legs.

She kisses your lips, slips her tongue into your mouth for only a moment. And then she’s trailing kisses down your body.

Your chest. Your breasts.

She pays special attention to your nipples. Her eyes locking with yours as she sucks, ever so gently.

Your body feels hot.

You grip her face, holding her in place.

And then she’s nudging out of your grip, dipping down to press her lips to your navel.

She doesn’t kiss your scar, but you can tell she wants to.

She looks up at you, eyes wide and vulnerable as she squeezes your hips.

“You’re beautiful.” She murmurs. She ducks down and presses a kiss to the top of your inner thigh, “You’re perfect. My perfect girl.”

“Tara,” You say, voice a little gravelly, “Baby, please.”

She doesn’t make you wait.

One moment she’s pressing her lips to your thigh. The next, she’s dipping down between your legs. You lean back onto the pillows with a sigh.

Her lips graze.

She kisses your inner thigh.

Drags her tongue over your entrance and you gasp.

Then, her lips are on your clit.

You moan as she snakes a hand around your waist. The other slips between your legs. She teases for only a moment before she’s slipping her fingers inside you. You gasp at the sudden intrusion.

It’s not as though you’re not ready for it.

You’re so wet you’d give her a snorkel if she wasn’t such an experienced sailor.

But she rides your high seas like it’s her full time job.

Lips on your clit, fingers working in and out. She squeezes your hip with her free hand. Her talented mouth is like fire. Dancing around just where you need it most.

You close your eyes and let out a low moan.

She’s being careful.

Gentle.

Loving you like she doesn’t want to hurt you.

You take back the impatience. You take back the need for more, more, more.

Your sweet, loving girlfriend is all you need.

Gentle mouth. Careful tongue.

Her between your legs, working you into oblivion like sex is just a vehicle to express how deeply she loves you.

“Tara.”

You cum with her name on your lips. Her mouth fused around your lips. You cum feeling safe and wanted and needed.

And when she’s done, she climbs back up your body and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

Nestles herself with her head in your chest. Right next to your heartbeat.

Where she should be.

You close your eyes once more.

Thread your fingers through her hair. Press the softest of kisses to her forehead.

And then she looks up at you, her pretty brown eyes shimmering.

“Love you.” She murmurs. She punctuates her words with a kiss.

Your chest is heaving. You allow yourself the moment. Body thrumming with your orgasm, the love of your life pressed tight to your side.

Tara curls into you. She waits a moment, then looks over at you,

“I’m going to be better for you,” She murmurs, “I’ve put you through hell, baby, and I know that. But it all ends now.”

You frown.

“I’m in heaven with you, no matter what you’ve done,” You say, after a quiet moment, “After what we’ve both done. Right or wrong, I love you. And you love me. And that’s all that matters.”

Tara tilts her head to yours.

She takes your lips in a long, searing kiss.

She says what she can’t with words.

You say it too.

And when you pull back, you know she understands.

She’s yours.

And you are undeniably, irrefutably, entirely:

All hers. 

[yoonia]

the bedroom hymns ● chapter xxiii

⟶ Chapter summary | He may not be the Prince Charming written in fairy tales, but in your eyes, he seems perfectly yours. Even with many secrets lying between you, a part of you insists to put faith in him, to trust him, even with your secrets. Besides, there is a good reason why fate answered your prayers by allowing you to meet him again, shouldn’t it? 

⟶ Title | The Bedroom Hymns: a Bluebeard’s twist ⟶ Pairings | Min Yoongi x female reader  ⟶ Genre | Fairy Prince!Yoongi, Crown Princess!reader, Fantasy!AU, Fairy Tale retelling ⟶ Word count | 9,264 words ⟶ Ratings | PG-13, +18 / M for Mature for future chapters; include magic terms, classism, brief mention of slavery, black market, usage of drugs mentioned, hypnotism.  ⟶ Story Masterlist: The Bedroom Hymns | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢ ⟶ Main Masterlist | Mailbox | Taglist | Feedback | Music Playlist | Ko-fi

chapter xxiii. serendipity-3

The sun has finally gone out. The bright sky is now painted in vibrant colours of blue, faded teal, and purple as dusk slowly melts into night. Up above, the stars are beginning to show their presence, looking like pixie dust spreading into the night. 

Once the pixies welcomed Yoongi into their circle, he was sat down by the curious pixies to endure the same questioning as you had. 

“Where did you come from?” 

“How did you cross the border?” 

“Is that a real sword? Is it heavy? Have you ever hurt anyone with it? Have you ever hurt yourself?” 

“Your hair is so soft. What did you put in it?” 

You had to hold back a smile while he went through it, yet your own curiosity rose when Yoongi visibly tensed and surprised when he heard Illyn asking, “Did you also walk past the fairy portal in the woods?” 

It didn’t take long for the pixies to lose interest in Yoongi, however, as fireflies began to come out of their hiding once it grew dark and caught their attention. Seems like they have yet to run out of energy, even after playing the whole day and the entire afternoon, as they are now busy chasing the fireflies and slipping between the thickening white mist rising around the riverbank. The sound of their joyful giggles echoes through the evening as you join Yoongi on a stroll along the length of the river, spending the last hour that you have left before you have to run home. 

The thought of having to say goodbye when you barely have enough time to share with Yoongi saddens you. Yet you try to make the best of it. You don’t even resist when Yoongi insists on holding your hand when he helps you jump across a small puddle, and you say nothing when he still keeps your hand in his as you slowly make your way back towards the elven town. 

“It feels really peaceful here, doesn’t it?” you muse with a sigh as you look up beyond the canopy of leaves above your head, marvelling at the colours showing in the sky—colours you wouldn’t normally see back home—and the sparkle of stars now filling the sky.

Far ahead of you, just beyond the tree line, the elven town lights up. Golden lights emerge through the open windows, lanterns hanging from the houses and on the small roads illuminate the rest of the town, and each sparkle of light is reflected on the waterfall that gleams brighter in the night. 

“Aren’t you afraid of the dark?” Yoongi asks, almost teasingly, “There is barely any light here, under the trees, and starlight can’t really reach us once we get deeper into the woods.” 

You glance around, seeing the contrasting sight of the dark forest filled with nothing but unmoving shadows against the brightening town. Before, it would have been daunting for you to travel into these woods, when the only colours you’d see are the white mist crawling on the ground and the fog forming from your breath. But after the chilling darkness and the daunting sights you find during your previous trips, this kind of darkness doesn’t incite any uneasiness rushing through your skin. 

The cold breeze doesn’t make you shiver. The cricket sounds echoing from the riverbanks, the faint night birdsong, and the echoes of the giggling and humming sounds of the pixies only give you a sense of calmness. Yoongi’s gentle hold on your hand and his warm presence make you feel secure enough to stare into the darkness and walk through it. 

“No, I’m not afraid,” you simply answer him with a smile. “Compared to where I’ve been lately, this place feels more like heaven. And what should I worry about when I have you here with me?” 

Yoongi lowers his eyes as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. “Have you missed me while I was gone?”

“No. Not really,” the lie easily slips out of your lips, and the corners of his lips rise to a smile. 

A deep chuckle escapes him, causing your heartbeat to trip. Air slowly leaves your lungs as he gently opens his eyes, showing you the deep gaze which haunts your thoughts whether you are in slumber or when you are awake. “You look pretty even when you lie,” he whispers with a low voice. 

Turning away from him, you take a deep, long breath. You have no idea if the heat rising on your cheeks came from his words or the way he is looking at you. “You always speak as you please.” 

“Yet I’m not the one who is lying,” he replies, and you can almost hear his smile before your eyes find him again. “That’s me saying that I don’t believe you. Not for one second.” 

Your cheeks are flushed, his words become a spell that makes your heart race and your hope bloom like wildflowers. And then the feeling is made worse when you turn to face Yoongi, capturing the deep longing in his gaze which mirrors yours perfectly that your words begin to spill out. “And if I tell you that I missed you, what would you do?” 

His chest rises with a sharp breath. The intense look in his gaze makes it hard for you to breathe and you cannot understand why. “I will cherish it,” he says, his voice sounding firm and sure that you find no reason to be doubtful. “The thought of you thinking about me in my absence brings me joy like no other.”

Your throat feels dry. Your heart feels like it is about to jump out of your chest the first chance it gets.  

“Always so charming with your words.” 

A ghost of a smile appears on his face, and then it is gone. “Yet none of it is a lie.” 

“I believe you,” you whisper with a sigh, and you mean it. because you can see it—you can feel it—simply by looking into his eyes. For a moment, you find it hard to look away. You despise ever thinking about having to look at other things but his face, to even look away from his eyes that are sometimes more honest than his words. 

But then the sound of wild giggles seems to be coming closer, the fluttering movements of the pixies entering the trees break the spell forming between you, and Yoongi is the one to give in first with a smile.  

“Now, shall we enjoy the rest of the evening? Maybe see what they are up to now before I send you home?” 

Home.

The thought of having to walk away from this place, from him, is eating you from the inside. Yet you try to push it down, silently hoping—praying—that this wouldn’t be the last evening that you would be spending with him. 

“All right. Lead the way.” 

Yoongi is left astonished at what is happening at this moment. 

Right before his eyes, the pixies are dancing and singing together, giving the two of you a show in an opening they found in the middle of the forest. Here, the moonlight is shining brightly from above, as if creating a special stage for them to perform their little celebration. And you are standing right beside him, enjoying this view together with him, with your hand entwined with his and shoulder brushing against his as you gently sway to the song the pixies are singing. 

He secretly steals a glance at your face without you realising it. He wants to commit this moment to his memory; the look of awe on your face as you watch the pixies dancing before you; your eyes that are glowing with amusement and pure joy; the delicate way your fingers seem to sink into his palm, as if they belong there. 

For the first time after quite some time, Yoongi feels at ease. Perhaps being with you helps, feeling your presence nearby and the touch of your hand in his becoming his anchor. 

For the past week, he felt as if his life was going out of control. But with you, he feels like everything is slowly falling into place, and he simply wants to hold on to everything before it slips away from his hold. 

Smiling, Yoongi turns his attention back to the pixies. The song they are singing seems to rouse a peculiar sensation within him. It fills him with joy and—amusingly—raw pleasure that he had only ever felt from drinking the strongest ales created by the hands of the moon fairies of Emburn. 

He shouldn’t be surprised to feel this kind of sensation simply by listening to the pixies’ tune. He has learned quite a lot about pixies after his previous journeys and his various close encounters with beings of their kind. Many may not have known this, but their magic dust isn’t the only thing that is special about the pixies. The song they sing, the tune and the words they hum, are said to be magical, acting like a spell to incite various sensations within other beings—mostly humans, as they are the most vulnerable beings against magic. 

As he continues to watch their performance and feels as if he is no longer carrying unwanted weight on his shoulders, his troubles forgotten and feeling only hope blooming in his chest, Yoongi wonders if the song that they are singing is the kind of spell that only brings joy. The kind that often causes dream-like experiences for other beings like himself, and others like you. 

Needing this escape, Yoongi allows himself to relish this feeling for a moment longer, to enjoy this moment with you, before he begins worrying about other matters. 

One of which is trying to make things right with you, when his lack of presence as of late may have placed him a few steps behind from what he wanted to achieve by following you through the portals. All he wanted was to become closer, not to feel as if you were a world apart from him even when you are right beside him. 

He wanted to win your trust, and perhaps one day, he can win your heart. But how would he be able to do so if he kept missing from your life whenever you needed him? 

“Forgive me for not being able to join you during your previous trips. I had somewhere else to be, and not one of my excursions ever led me to your path.” Yoongi says as he walks beside you, continuing your stroll along the river once he can sense that your time here is slowly coming to an end. 

You and Yoongi have left the pixies behind you, still enjoying their time partying in the forest with more and more other pixies joining in to form a bigger circle. The last time Yoongi turned to glance over his shoulder, the pixies’ dancing had become so intense that he began seeing golden dust sparkling all around them, their rapid dancing and the spells they were singing brought together magic pixie dust to illuminate the forest around them. 

Those pixie dust have now scattered all over the gravelled pathway before him, as the wined pixie kept floating across to drop the magical dust to help light up the way, allowing the two of you to see clearly through the darkening woods. 

Muted golden glow from the magic dust spreads all around him, the lights reflecting perfectly on your face that Yoongi cannot look away. In his eyes, you look as if you are walking among the stars, up there in the night sky, and he is floating with you like a shadow, protecting you from the night. 

He has pictured this moment many times before, when he was walking down the royal garden or through the halls within the Imperial Palace, wishing that you were by his side. Wishing that he was spending time with you instead of with the bratty princess who was more than happy to play along with the Empress’ ploy in keeping him back home. Now that this is finally happening, it seems hard for his mind to accept that this is his reality and not just a figment of his imagination, his wishful thinking playing tricks on him to make him believe that this is real. 

“I—wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to see you today, to be honest,” Yoongi painfully admits, while recalling how hard it was for him to escape from the palace today. 

It was his own fault for getting him in such a situation, after all. 

He shouldn’t have traded the dance that he wanted so badly to avoid with a promise. A promise that he regretted the moment he stepped into the royal garden, when he realised too late that he had made a deal with the wrong force. 

What Yoongi had imagined to be a swift affair, a simple afternoon tea to appease the royal brat of a princess where all he had to do was sit and act nice while she gushed and gossiped about life within the empire, had turned out to be everything that was not. 

The entire encounter had instead turned mostly peculiar. 

Princess Celestyna has always worn the facade of a coy and almost naive and child-like, just like any other sheltered and spoiled princess he has ever met. But this afternoon, as she sat at the table set up for their little ‘date’, the princess had shed her entire facade and worn a new persona. Her presence emitted arrogance and an eerie calmness that made him feel uneasy. He was just about to call everything off when the princess dropped a bomb on him.

“I know that this is the last place you would rather be, Your Highness,” she said to him between taking dainty sips of her tea, with a gaze that carried a peculiar look to which Yoongi felt cautious. But then his blood ran cold when she added, “Do you know the real reason why I followed my father to visit your empire and meet the Empress? You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The air is changing. You cannot tell me you have no idea what, or who is causing it.” 

Realisation dawned in Yoongi back then, just as everything that he noticed about the realm upon his return came back to him; the turbulence he felt welcoming him home in waves; the stillness in the air; and the imbalance of magic. 

Before Yoongi could process things further, or inquire the princess about the secrets that she seemed to be offering him, he felt the ripple of magic rising at the back of his mind. It was subtle enough so that he knew he would be the only one who could feel it, and he immediately knew that it was the moment you stepped into a portal. 

Yoongi was caught between staying, accepting the princess’s olive branch, and the fear of losing the chance to see you again, so for a moment, he nearly faltered. But his wish to see you again prevailed. He felt your presence calling for him, pulling at his soul, and it gave him the willpower to walk away and race through the portal to catch up with you.  

“You won’t be able to keep running, Your Highness,” the princess called out to him just as Yoongi began to walk away, “You can try to avoid me as much as you want to or deny what must happen for as long as you can, but you must know that you won’t be able to change anything.” 

Yoongi shakes his head, shaking away the memory of the unpleasant encounter from his mind. He hates that even now, when he is supposed to be enjoying his time with you, that second princess of the Kosha Empire still dares to invade his mind—just like how she has been trying to invade his entire life. 

“It wasn’t easy, and I debated if I should risk making this trip at the last minute, when I still had my duties ahead of me,” he says with a grim smile on his face as the memory of Princess Celestyna’s cunning smile comes and goes. “But in the end, I am glad that I chose to listen to my gut and risk everything for a chance to see you again.” 

The smile that you give him alleviates his guilt. Only slightly.

But it is still the same smile that he has been longing to see. So much so that he has been seeing it in his dreams that he suddenly feels the urge to pinch himself just to make sure that this isn’t another dream, taunting him with your presence only to take you away from him so soon. 

“And here you are, right when I was just wondering if I should walk away sooner than planned,” you respond to him, much to his relief. A part of him was expecting to see your growing distrust of him, and yet your words hold no adversity in them that it makes him feel almost undeserving of your kindness. 

“I am beginning to believe this matter of fate that you spoke of so often, seeing that you were able to find me despite how busy you’ve been.” A soft chuckle slips out of your lips. “I’m amazed that you managed to find me at all.” 

Pain pierces through him as he returns your smile. He feels bitter about the fact that he had been the one who spoke of fate intertwining your lives together and yet has become the one defying fate itself. He cannot stop feeling as if he has failed you, and he knows that this feeling will continue to haunt him each time he remembers the disappointed look in your eyes looking back at him. 

And he knows that he will disappoint you further by not being able to share his secrets, even if only to answer your curiosity. 

“Is it another mercenary work that’s been keeping you away?” you innocently question him, and Yoongi can only bite back his tongue. In a way, it wouldn’t be too off the mark, since he did use his mercenary work as an excuse to stay out of the imperial palace from time to time, or when he needed a break from the Empress’ plot of keeping him close to their royal guests. 

It was safer for him to use the mercenary army as an excuse rather than using the magic portals, with the chances of having the Empress planting an eye around him.

“Perhaps,” he sighs, “you can say that.” He hates not being able to tell you the truth, but he also has no way of confessing that his lack of presence in your expeditions has been caused by another. With a tight smile on his face, Yoongi turns to ask you, “Have you been travelling well lately?” 

For a moment, you look quite reluctant to answer. At first, Yoongi simply takes it as your hesitance about sharing the secrets behind the magic that you are using. But instead, you choose to share something completely unexpected. 

“Not that much, actually. I have been—unwell,” you slowly admit. “After the last time we met in Grimm, I was left bedridden for quite a while.” 

His brows rise. “How so?” he asks, feeling uneasy.

Pressing your lips together, you shrug at him. “It seems that I have been using up my mana due to my travelling.” 

“Do you mean to say that your means of travel has been draining your mana?” Yoongi asks. His surprise almost caused him to make a slip-up, to show you that he knows by which way you have been travelling to different places. 

Thankfully, you don’t seem to notice it as you continue walking. “It may seem so”—a touch of a smile flickers on your face—”although it is just a personal assumption that I made up, seeing that it happened after I came back from travelling.” You stop for a moment, thinking. “Actually, now that I think about it, this kind of exhaustion only happened when I went across to places within Far Far Away.” 

Yoongi falls silent as he ponders over this. He cannot figure out why the same magic that empowers him—and one that he has learned to understand and control since he was just a young boy—would be reacting differently towards you. While this explains the reason behind your recent absence, he cannot say that he takes any pleasure in knowing. 

Perhaps it would have been better to hear that you had encountered something else getting in the way of you using the portals. Anything else but having your well-being and your safety having been compromised to be the reason for it. 

“You never felt the same when you were travelling back to Smotia?” 

You consider it for a moment before shaking your head. “Hmmm, I don’t recall that I have. I always felt tired, but it wasn’t as bad as it has been lately.” You stop, furrowing your brows, before turning to him. “Do you think—” 

“What?” 

Gnawing your lips, you shake your head gently before sharing your thoughts. “It’s just something that I thought of,” you begin to say, still hesitant. “What if, the—magic that I’m using to travel is feeding off my mana?” You turn to him. “Can something like that happen?” 

“You mean, it’s using your mana like fuel?” Yoongi asks, raising his brows. 

You slowly nod. “Like what oil does to a lamp, or food to humans.” 

Humming to himself, Yoongi recalls everything that he has learned about the magic portals. To think of any possible side effects or the possibility of it not taking its powers from the moon—as expected of these types of portals—but from its user instead. Yet he comes up with nothing. Because nothing similar to this has ever happened. Not to him, and certainly not to the Emperor, who used to travel merely through the portals to deal with the empire’s business. 

But the truth is, he simply never heard of it. 

A random thought suddenly crosses Yoongi’s mind just then. 

“In theory, it can happen,” he cautiously says, just as he remembers something that he once learned about magic. 

Any form of magic requires a price. A sacrifice is needed to be made to pay for any magic that is pulled out of the realm, used and cast by whoever is summoning them. For the type of magic as strong as the fairy portals, a sacrifice must be made. The Ancient moon fairies, however, had found a way to resolve this. 

By borrowing power from the moon, the fairies obtaining the skill to create, open, and use the portals would no longer need to sacrifice a thing. Only to then repay all the powers lent to them by the moon by celebrating the rites during the Runea Luna Eve. This is how it’s been done for centuries, until Yoongi was given the keys to the magic portals. 

But could this really be the reason? 

Yoongi wonders as he looks at you. Since you are not a fairy such as himself, nor you were born with a fairy blood or a direct connection to the moon, using the magic which belonged to his kind may require you to pay for it with something else. Something valuable. 

Your mana. A piece of your heart. Your—lifespan. 

Yoongi fists his hands by his side. “Have you talked about this with anyone else?” 

“Well, yes.” The crease between your brows deepens, and then you mutter, “Okay, maybe not.” A beat of silence passes, before you correct yourself, “Not really.” 

Yoongi says nothing, only that he knows now that you have yet to share your secret with anyone else. No one knows about her using the portals, he muses, surprised with what he just learned. He shouldn’t feel relieved about it, since that only means that you have no one by your side to guide you through it. 

But if you still have nobody to talk to about this, if you are still keeping this a secret, then this means he can use this to strengthen the bond he has with you. To gain your trust that has become so fragile from his own doing. 

Cocking your head, you innocently ask him, “What are you thinking?” 

Yoongi grabs your hand instead of answering directly. He still has to work on finding out the truth about this side-effect before slowly revealing the truth about the portal—that he knows more about it than he is letting on, and that he and his family are the ones behind it. He needs to make sure that you trust him enough before he can. 

Because revealing the origin of the portal you are using might risk him losing your trust. It might risk him losing the only link he has to the Wicked King. 

“I’m just wondering,” he says, as he begins rubbing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb, drawing shivers through your skin, “you mentioned before that this is all new for you. That you are still getting used to your new life in Far Far Away.” 

He stops to wait until you respond with a nod before he continues, “Even without having to use magic, travelling within this realm itself can be draining, and you still can’t fully access your magic to begin with.” Looking down at the ground covered in pixie dust, Yoongi points at the glowing lights. “Take a look at how the scattered magic dust is covering the dark, hard ground beneath. Look at it as the realm we are standing in.” 

You turn to look at the sparkling magic dust and keep your eyes on it while Yoongi keeps speaking, “There are layers and layers of mana in this realm which—depending on which part of the land you are—may require different levels of mana within yourself to withstand it. For you to be able to ride the energy flow that is present all around you when you are stepping into a new territory.” 

Yoongi smiles as he senses you growing more at ease, and that you seem to understand what he is trying to say. “With your magic still restrained, you haven’t been able to put your raw mana to use. At the very least, not in its full potential.” 

Your gaze finds his after hearing this, which encourages Yoongi to continue, “So it’s quite possible that your body was weakened due to the insufficient amount of mana you had to boost the power of the magic. And it if had instead begun to feed on your life energy, that might explain why you experience fatigue and why it took longer for your mana to recover.” 

An understanding look fills your eyes. “That would make sense,” you mutter softly, and Yoongi can almost hear the wheels in your head turning. He can hear the questions that you have before you even think of voicing them out loud. He knows that—despite your lack of experience with magic—you are smart enough to understand things quickly.

Right when you are about to speak, to question him further—to force him to tell you everything about the portals—Yoongi cuts you off with his own question, “What about your latest trips? I thought you said you had been going back to back while I was away? How are you feeling now?” 

Finding out that you are experiencing some side effects from the portals made him feel wary, and it worries him more when he thinks about the constant waves of magic reaching out to him and he was never there. “You know, some people might think that it would be better to avoid anything that was harmful to them,” he tries to joke, “and yet you decided to jump right back into it again the moment you had the chance.” 

A grin lifts on the corner of your lips. “You got me,” you softly laugh. “I suppose my curiosity got the better of me. In a way, I wanted to test my theory, and—” You stop for a moment as you recall the past few days—the days that Yoongi would have loved to hear more about in detail—and then shrug a little. “You can say that the circumstances made it hard for me to avoid going on those trips.” 

Your gaze flicks back to him. “I might say that fate pointed out the way and I simply followed.” Yoongi returns your smile. “But things are different now.” 

“Different? In what way?” 

You make a humming sound as you answer, “I’ve been training. Someone—one of my guardians—offered to help me practice controlling my mana, even if I can’t really use it to expel magic.” Yoongi cannot help but smile as you share this. He loves seeing how proud you look, simply from thinking about what you have achieved on your own. The look of excitement for overcoming a challenge and getting yourself ready to try facing another. 

“Do you think your training has been helping you, seeing that you are doing quite alright now even after—how busy you’ve been?” 

“I’m not quite sure, really,” you admit with a nervous smile, “That’s also why I’ve been waiting to see you. What do you think? Do you reckon my progress may have anything to do with how I’m not sick right now?” 

Yoongi considers the option for a moment before nodding. “It might,” he cautiously says, “By having control of your mana, you might have been able to inadvertently prevent your mana from being drained completely while you had your expeditions.” 

This answer seems to please you. “Of course, I am not an expert in this type of magic,” he quickly says before you get your hopes up. And it is not a complete lie, as there are real experts back home at Emburn who study this old magic properly that would know better than he does now. And he quickly makes it his mission to find them once he returns. ”I can try and help you look for answers if that can help you.” 

Your smile widens. And he suddenly feels like his chest is too tight for his beating heart. “Would you do that for me?” you ask, to which he feels his knees weakening beneath him that he comes to a halt, bringing you close to him as he pulls you gently towards him. 

“Anything, little dove,” he murmurs as he gently leans closer. “Even if only to make up for my recent absence and the days that went on without us being able to enjoy our time like this.” 

Yoongi is so close. You are so close that he can breathe in the scent of your shampoo and the soft fragrance that you might have dropped onto the curves of your neckline this morning—something sweet and floral and maddeningly luscious—that his entire body grows warm. Before he can stop himself, his hand rises, fingers gently sweeping back some stray strands of hair that keep escaping to your cheek, and your face flushes. 

Clearing your throat, you lower your gaze with a bashful smile. “Speaking of places with mana,” you softly speak, a hint of shyness flutters in your voice which pleases him dearly when you ask, “Have you been to a place called Aeris?” 

Swallowing hard, Yoongi tries to calm his expression when he answers. “I’ve been there many times. Some of the merchants and barons that have hired me are those who deal with businesses in both realms, that’s why I frequently go to marketplaces like Narlès and Aeris.” He inclines his head. “Why do you ask?”  

“Have you been there recently?” you question him, gnawing your lips as if you aren’t sure to ask. 

“Not that I recall, no. I’ve been going to places where people were dealing with various crisis, and I have yet to visit any marketplaces lately.” 

You try to hide it, but Yoongi can see a hint of disappointment in your eyes. “I see.” 

Yoongi falls silent instead of questioning further. Because he knows why you would ask him about Aeris. 

He was unable to leave the Imperial Palace when he felt you visiting the Mage City, so he had to send out the only one he trusted to go in his place and watch over you, making sure that you were safe. Yet it seems that Yijeong has failed to report back to him to let him know that you had caught him, or perhaps felt his presence while shadowing you through the city.  

That fool. 

Swallowing a frustrated groan, Yoongi reminds himself to be grateful. Despite his recklessness and his lack of trust in you, Yijeong has been there when Yoongi couldn’t. His loyal friend has continued volunteering to take his place, jumping into the magic portal whenever the ripples came calling for Yoongi to follow, all to be able to watch over you and keep you safe while Yoongi was stuck in the Empress’ little ploy. 

From the mage city of Aeris to the legendary E’l Alora, the ancient place that is no longer shown on any kind of map, and then to the fallen city of Arselon, where mortals are no longer welcomed after they became casualties of war. 

Yoongi cannot imagine what kind of adventures you have been to. Not even Yijeong’s reports were adequate in letting him know what you’ve learned from these expeditions of yours. How much he wishes to be there to witness it. And how inadequate it makes him feel to realise how much he has missed. 

“The next time we meet again,” Yoongi gently says, “Tell me everything about your latest journey.” 

The smile you give him holds hope and promise. “As long as you share me yours.” 

As soon as you’ve made it across the bridge with Yoongi, you come to a halt, hesitant to continue.

You can feel it from a distance; the ripples of magic coming out of the portal, waiting for your return, hidden deep between the trees.

Silently, you wonder if Yoongi can feel it too. For some reason, you know that he can feel it, but he chooses not to show it. Not to say anything. Respecting your need to hold your secret just a bit longer until you can trust him completely with it. 

Judging from the way he isn’t making any move to continue, he is respecting your choice by not following you through the woods unless you allow him to. 

But keeping your secret and preventing him from following you to find the opened portal is the least of your concerns at this moment. You hate having to say goodbye so soon when you just met him again. Your time together has been too short, you feel like it wasn’t enough. 

Yoongi tilts his head, noticing your silence. “Is there something wrong?” he asks, as if he can sense you having an inner battle in your silence. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye so soon,” you admit with a quiet whisper. 

“Then don’t,” Yoongi says, smiling. “Don’t say goodbye. Not when we’re going to see each other again.” 

“Is that true? Will we be able to see each other again?” You cannot help but ask, “I’ve believed that we would, but—” 

Taking your hand in his, Yoongi gives it a gentle squeeze. “I promise, whenever you make the jump to travel somewhere, to a new place across the realm or even towards the next realm, I’ll come running to you,” he says with a firm voice, only that you are too afraid to believe him, to hope, after being disappointed the last few times you went and never found yourself crossing paths with him. 

“Don’t say such promises as if it is something that you are capable of doing,” you whisper bitterly, looking away. 

Still keeping a gentle hold of your hand, Yoongi tilts your chin up with his other hand, bringing your gaze back to him. “As I’ve told you many times before, little dove. I wouldn’t dare make a promise that I’m not sure I can keep,” he whispers as he plays with a few stray strands of your hair before tucking them behind your ear. Just like before, when he did the same and the tips of his fingers brushed lightly against your cheek, your body shudders. Your skin grows hot, and you sway on your feet, your body leaning towards him to feel more. 

Your eyes flutter to close as you embrace this feeling, yet you quickly open them again, resisting, only so you can look at him longer. But then his face comes closer, almost as if he is leaning for a kiss. “Can you keep that promise?” you force yourself to ask, even when your voice comes out small, almost breathless. “Can you really find a way to know where I am the next time I walk across the realm and be there when I make the jump?”

Yoongi says nothing at first. But the intense way he is looking at you, with no words, only with a gaze that seems tortured, as if he is pained for not being able to say much seems to speak louder than his words would. 

“How? How would you be able to do such a thing?” 

Instead of answering you, Yoongi only smiles. “Why don’t we make a little deal, you and me?” Yoongi offers instead, “I will tell you the next time we see each other again. Better yet, each time we meet again, I will share with you one secret of mine for you to keep. Something more about myself.” 

Sucking a deep breath, you try to calm the flutter building in your chest. And fail. “Promise?” Your voice comes out in a whisper. “And I—” You continue, feeling your throat tightening when you think about all the things you can offer to make this fair. You want to give something back. A piece of you to every piece of himself that he is willing to give you. 

Bringing your hand up, you offer him your pinky finger. “Then I’ll share something about myself too when we see each other again.” 

Looking up close, Yoongi’s eyes seem to sparkle. Intrigued and pleased, Yoongi’s smile deepens as he entwines his pinky finger around yours and murmurs, “It’s a promise.” 

Neither of you makes a move to separate, remaining in this position just a bit longer, staying close with his eyes staring deeply into yours. For a moment, you wonder if he is going to kiss you, as he slowly bends down, his face growing closer, until he suddenly stops with a hesitant smile. “Until we meet again,” he says instead, kissing the back of your hand. 

You are filled with a mix of emotions, yet the touch of his lips on your skin makes your heart flutter, soaring with hope. 

“Remember,” he whispers, “All you need to do is jump, and I’ll come running to you.” 

Despite everything, you know deep down that you can hold onto this promise. You want to believe him, and that is exactly what you say to him in the end before you finally decide to part ways just beyond the last line of trees. 

“Will you be okay crossing the woods on your own?” Yoongi asks, still reluctant to let you go into the woods. 

“I have my dagger with me, and I know how to defend myself,” you reassure him, and his gaze flickers with knowing, believing that you are telling him the truth. “If all fails, I’ll scream for help.” 

Yoongi softly laughs. “I’ll be here,” he says, as he slides his hands into his pockets, as if he is doing so to hold back from reaching out to you. “At least until you make it across.” 

You leave him standing by the bridge as you trudge into the thickets, his warm smile becomes the last thing you see when you look over your shoulder one last time, before slipping deeper into the woods and entering the magic portal waiting to take you home. You close your eyes for a brief moment when the magic engulfs you, pulling you through the space in between before you arrive back home. The force of the magic is so strong, that you barely feel it when another ripple of magic follows your departure, coming from somewhere nearby, right before the magic door closes behind you. 

The moment you open your eyes again, you are standing in the middle of the quiet corridor back in Stargrave. There is an emptiness in your chest as you walk further away from the ghostly feeling of the magic portal slowly waning behind you as you slowly make your way back to your bedchamber, yet you find no reason to feel any sorrow as you stroll down the empty hallways and into your silent quarter. 

Because you've arrived back home not all empty-handed. Not when you have the warmth of a promise filling your heart, the ghost of Yoongi’s touch lingering in your palm, and five pouches of pixie dust in the pocket of your dress. 

The day after your last trip, where you got to visit the home of elves and pixies, you remain in the castle instead of allowing your curiosity to take you away once again. 

Your father’s keys are secured safely in one of the drawers inside your bedchamber. Out of sight, though not entirely out of mind. 

“Take a day off from travelling, especially since you’ve been travelling more frequently as of late,” Yoongi had suggested yesterday, right before you parted ways, right after you made him so obviously worry about your well-being after you shared your recent predicament. 

And you have chosen to follow his advice. To preserve your energy and mana until the next time you will be needing it again. Until the next time you see him again. 

“And where will you be while I’m gone? Back to your mercenary business?” 

Yoongi had given you a tight smile when you asked. Yet his eyes were filled with resolve when he answered, “Perhaps I shall handle my business to make sure they will no longer be in the way of me catching up to you.” 

With no plans on escaping the confines of the castle, you spend your afternoon at the terrace on Nanny Abigail’s quarter for some afternoon tea with your governess. It has been a while since you spent some time with her without any agenda hidden under your sleeves—or hers. 

Being here also means keeping you away from any possibility of you straying down vacant hallways in the castle and finding cryptic doors with humming spells enchanting you to open.  

“It’s quite remarkable to think that on the same day you spent the hour of your dancing lesson stubbing your toes one too many times, you spent the rest of the afternoon sparring with the knights,” Nanny Abigail lifts her eyes from her tea and runs her gaze on your body, perusing briefly before commenting, “and without any injuries on your skin.” 

You look up, forcing a smile as you resist the urge to admit that you did gain some injuries. But you choose not to say anything, lest you are to be forced to explain everything. Or worse, to risk causing an innocent royal knight to take the blame. 

“How did you find out?” You ask her instead while keeping your voice calm. 

Nanny Abigail presses her lips together. A look of displeasure is written all over her face. “Words travel fast in this place. The maids here keep curious eyes on the Princess who had been kept away from the only home she ever knew and is struggling to adjust in this new place,” she says with a wistful tone of voice, as if she has grown tired of the gossips, until she adds, “And those words always come back to me.”  

“No wonder I felt like I was constantly being watched.” With an exaggerated sigh, you shake your head and mutter, “And here I thought it was all you.” 

Eyebrows raised, Nanny Abigail looks at you with an unamused look on her face. “You think I planted a spy on you?” 

You give her a sly grin as you shrug. “Wouldn’t be too surprised if you had. You’ve always seemed to have many eyes looking at me even when you are not around.” 

Your governess narrows her eyes at you as she murmurs almost to herself, “Perhaps it’s time I should put a spy on you to make sure you behave like a princess for once.” 

The bitter way she says it only makes you laugh, which draws a smile to her face. A fleeting sight to see, that you almost believe you are imagining things, until you hear the sound of her soft chuckle, laughing at her own joke. She expertly hides it behind her cup of tea, keeping her poise as always. 

“May I ask you something?” you carefully ask her when a thought comes through your mind. Something has been weighing in your mind lately, and seeing that your governess seems to be in a light mood—enough for her to joke around with you—you figure this might as well be the right time to bring this up.  

Nanny Abigail lifts her eyebrows and hums. “I don’t suppose it will stop you from trying if I refuse.” 

You roll your eyes. “Glad to know you think so highly of me,” you tease, once again drawing a small smile from her. You take a deep breath before asking, “How well did you know my mother?” 

At the mention of your mother, Nanny Abigail’s shoulders grow stiff. She quickly recovers and straightens up as she slowly lowers her cup. She clears her throat before answering, “Well enough to see parts of her in you each time I’m looking at you. It’s like seeing a reflection of her when I look at your face, or listen to you speak.” 

Her gaze finds you. The joy in her eyes dims and softens when a smile comes to her face. A smile that is filled with melancholy and a familiar sense of longing. “Might be why it doesn’t surprise me when you are always up to something whenever no one is looking.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

Nanny Abigail sighs. “The Queen, your mother, has always been just as mischievous as you are. She has always been like that since she was a child. Always so curious, always questioning and looking for answers, even if it’s the most impossible ones to find.”

You cannot help but smile as you hear this. “How did that go with my father?” 

“His Majesty was always worried about her, but what can he do?” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Not even the most strict rules can stop her from going out to see the world.” 

Your back straightens. You have learned from Lord Gordan that you may have some similarities with your mother. You never expected to even share this with her. “She was a traveller.” 

Nanny Abigail looks at you, smiling. “And a scholar,” she adds. “That was her true power.” She briefly halts, thinking, before adding, “Well, one of them. Her curiosity is one, and her knowledge is the other. But the most important one that she obtained over the years would be her courage. The one thing that kept pushing her to find more and more knowledge, no matter where and how.”

“This castle is full of books,” you muse, recalling how much the royal library had amazed you the first time you entered it. And it seems that you keep finding more and more books—all the rare ones that have often helped answer your questions—the more you explore deeper. “Was it because my mother loved to learn?” 

“Yes, it was. Your mother’s always so fond of books,” Nanny Abigail says with a fond look in her eyes. “I believe she also kept a journal with her. A small notebook where she would keep the things she found and learned through her journeys.” 

The conversation halts for a moment as Nanny Abigail pours some more tea into the cups, while your mind wanders. “How did she travel?” you find yourself asking, wondering, to which Nanny Abigail merely scoffs. 

“Heavens know. She always had her secrets,” she answers with a soft chuckle. “Mostly, she would disappear hours into the day and come back once evening comes. Sometimes later, looking weary and excited at the same time from whatever adventure she got herself on.” 

Furrowing your brows, you think about what she mentioned earlier. “The journal. Have you ever seen it? Have you ever read what she wrote in it?” 

Nanny Abigail presses her lips and shakes her head. “No, she used to keep it to herself. Kept it hidden in her bedchamber.” Her gaze seems far away when she continues, “But she would talk about her day as she was writing about it. Sometimes she would do sketches. She would draw the places, the people she met, and the things she saw into these rough sketches for her to keep in her memory, but never once had she ever shown me anything she put down in that journal.” 

Talking about your mother and the things they used to do back then brings another smile to her face. And she talks as if the memory is still fresh, that everything is happening in the present instead of the past, that you can almost see it through her eyes, to feel your mother’s presence the way Nanny Abigail is feeling it now. “Besides, even if I ever got a peek at her writing, I wouldn’t have understood it,” she adds. 

“Why wouldn’t you?” 

“Your mother’s quite adept with languages. She grew up speaking the language of the elves, and she was learning the native language of the moon fairies when she first began writing in that journal.” Her sigh is filled with longing when she continues, “She left a page on her desk once, something that looked like a letter that fell from the journal. She was quick to hide it, but I remember not recognising the language or the letters that she used. I couldn’t even read her scribbles, since she wrote them so quickly. Perhaps she had done it while on the road.” 

She laughs. “I think it’s her way of keeping all the information she wrote a secret, only for certain people to be able to read them.” 

You lean forward, getting more and more curious about this journal that your mother had allegedly carried with her. “Do you know where it is now?” you try to ask. “Or is it—is it lost with most of her belongings?” 

Nanny Abigail only answers with a resigned sigh. “No one knows. The Queen holds her secrets deeply, even in her absence.” Her gaze finds yours as she raises her cup of tea to her lips. “Just like you do.” 

A beat of silence falls. The wheels in your head are turning wildly as you try to connect all the dots. The places you’ve been. The words that were given to you by the people you met. 

But then all the puzzling clues you have gathered in your memory scatter when Nanny Abigail suddenly chastises you, “Of all the things you could have been doing in your free time, why did it have to be a sword fight?” 

Scoffing, you raise your brows at her. “Are you wishing that I’d be doing embroideries instead?” 

“Well, you could need some more work on that, for sure,” she teases, making you laugh.

“Hah! Very funny,” you respond with a chuckle. “But really, I was—” Sighing, you decide to share some truth about what has been troubling you. “I was bored, and I was getting too soft.” 

Nanny Abigail gives you an incredulous look. “From dancing?” 

“From the lack of physical training,” you bitterly admit, “I don’t think Lord Gordan is brazen enough to defy my father in terms of giving me lessons in fighting.” 

You hear Nanny Abigail sighing as she mutters, “As if you still need one.” 

“You are good at dancing and yet you still practice when you have the chance.” 

Your governess looks at you, saying nothing, but you can tell that she is silently agreeing with you. But the world will end if she ever admits it to your face. “So,” she says after sipping her tea. “Did you win?” 

Your lips twist to a sly grin. “What do you think?” 

One hour later, you find yourself returning to your quarters after a lazy afternoon. Your bedchamber is quiet, yet your mind is almost as lively as the rapid sound of your heartbeat as you reach for your dresser. Opening the top drawer, you find the set of keys gifted by your father. The magic keys cast silver and golden glow across the drawers and onto your face, the spell hums through the quiet space around you, as if asking why you haven’t reached for them today. 

Yet your gaze moves past them, landing on the small bundle that you had carried home with you from the fallen city of Arselon. 

You slowly reach for it, lifting the bundle in your hand with precise care—as if the thing will crumble into dust under your fingers. The bundle felt small when Gaia first handed it to you, enough for you to slip it under your cloak when you took it home. With gentle fingers, you pry open the velvet fabric covering it, revealing three small items bound together by a thick, white thread. 

The first item is a key; made of steel and mostly covered in rust, reminding you of the iron gate leading towards the forbidden part of the royal garden that you have yet to travel into. 

The second is an old folded map; with an inscription on the front cover written in one of the native languages you have been learning from Lady Laurel. Elven tongue. 

But what intrigues you the most is the third item. Weighing down on your palm is a small notebook. Small enough to fit in the small sling bag that you often carry with you when you are travelling or into the side pocket of your coat. The leather cover is tainted with ink stains and appears to be slightly worn out by age. The papers seem old and worn, with yellowing edges and some growing crisp and falling apart. Deep down, you have a feeling that you already know what this item is even without having to open it.

“I believe she also kept a journal with her…”

Nanny Abigail’s voice echoes through your head as you gently run the tips of your fingers over the leather covering, finding the small initial embossed into the leather, right at the bottom corner of the front cover. 

The inscription is made in a cursive letter, looking almost like a signed autograph marked into the leather coverings so it wouldn’t wear away by the passing of time, and the inscription reads the letter ‘M’. 

— © 2024 Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind is not allowed. unsolicited translations are not allowed.

[angel-kyo]

Pay it no mind

Part XXV

In which reader confesses their feelings to Gojo, but it seems these are not returned (maybe?).

Warnings: reader is on the receiving end of rejection (kinda), and the fact that I'm obsessed with unrequited love is a warning itself. Drinking is mentioned, Satoru is ooc and a bit mean. Umm... I don't know. If you think of anything, let me know.

Previous: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part IV, Part XV, Part XVI, Part XVII, Part XVIII, Part XIX, Part XX, Part XXI, Part XXII, Part XXIII, Part XXIV

----------------------

“Are you sure you don’t want some company? You look kind of…” Haruki did not finish that sentence, but you could guess what he meant.

Affected? Dumbfounded? Hurt? I am, all of those.

After your argument with Satoru, both of you had returned to the table looking gloom and shaken, and none of you had had the stomach to try the dessert after all.

Out of decency, Satoru had not made any excuses to leave early. But his eyes did not meet yours for the rest of the night, alternating between Haruki, Shoko, and the dessert he would push around over his plate but would not eat. And just like you, he had lost all will to chat with the rest. Then he had said his goodbyes quickly and left you all standing on the street outside the restaurant.

After you accompanied Shoko part of the way in the direction of her house, Haruki had insisted on walking you home.

Now you were standing in front of the closed door to your apartment with concerned hazel eyes trying to decipher what was going through you head.

“I guess I could not impress your friends, could I?” he asked, testing your mood.

You still did not look at him when you replied “You didn’t do so bad. Shoko was quite pleased.”

It was true. Even if the mood had become awkward towards the end of the night, you could tell Shoko had apparently enjoyed herself for a while.

“But Gojo wasn’t… It must have been quite a chat if it let you both that quiet.”

You knew there was no hostility in his tone, but it still reminded you of everything Satoru had told you.

“Is it because…?”

“Why did you have to…?”

Both of you had spoken at the same time, but when Haruki’s eyes connected with yours, he knew the answer to the question he had not finished. “So, it is because of what I said that Gojo got so weird. Am I right?”

He sighed.

It was not like you to look for someone to blame, and in all honesty, you could probably blame yourself for most of what had happened, but…

“He got the impression you and I have something, and now he thinks I was toying with him.”

He figured it had been something like that. He had felt like Gojo was mentally throwing daggers at him when he finally returned to the table and set his eyes on him.

“I’m sorry...” Haruki’s eyes showed genuine regret. “I guess I got petty. The other night, when you told me you felt he actually likes you, and that you wanted to give him a chance…” He smiled sadly. “...I felt happy for you, really. But when I saw him tonight, and the way he looks at you, I realized I would have to let you go.”

He had never seen it up-close, the way you and Gojo orbited around each other; how any of you would say something and immediately look at the other as if waiting for their reaction, the looks and smiles between the two revealing the complicity shared, like a dance you were the only ones who knew the steps of, a synchronized waltz perfected through the years.

You leaned against the door and looked down. “He hates me now though.”

Haruki leaned his side against the wall, looking at you. “You know,” there was a slight change in his remorseful tone from before, “when I was in high school, I was working parttime at this coffee shop, and one day during cashier duty, I spotted this person in the line and immediately felt like I needed to know them. I could have just given them their order and taken their money, but I asked them about the keychain dangling from their bag.”

I remember.

“I’ve never once regretted it,” he said looking into your eyes. “They turned out to be fun and smart, and made me so happy during a time when I was so miserable at home. I even felt a bit jealous of the friends who got to see them every day, and of that Satoru they talked so much about, and who obviously had loved them long before I even met them.”

Right, even back then, you would constantly mention Gojo during your outings. You had thought it was just natural for friends to talk so much about each other, to be constantly reminded of your bond, to see something and wonder if Satoru would like it, eat it, what would he think of it, and the need to share anything you found enjoyable with him.

‘Satoru would say this is not sweet enough.’

‘Satoru likes this anime too.’

‘The other day, Satoru said…’

Looking back at it, maybe you had fallen for him long before your lips touched his.

“I am sure he still feels the same,” Haruki said almost in a whisper as he reached for your face.

Looking at you, Haruki wondered what would have happened if you two had had more time. Would he have had a chance if you had met at a different stage in life? Would you have still drifted apart if your time had not been cut short when you were younger? If only he had met you sooner or maybe later than that hot summer that persuaded you to enter the air-conditioned coffee shop where he was working to escape the heat for a few minutes, would things have been different?

No... It is unfair to blame timing.

Those few minutes making small talk with you stretched into one of the happiest seasons of his youth. He did not want to change it, and hoped you did not either, even if the period when he could hope for anything more than friendship had come to an undeniable end.

“And you and him will sure have many more happy seasons together,” he said before pressing a caste kiss on your cheek and embracing you.

To you and Haruki, this was his way of saying goodbye to the possibility of anything else between you and him, an amicable end to a bright summer.

Unfortunately, to the white-haired man standing farther away in the hallway, who had not heard his words but witnessed his actions, although unnoticed by any of you, it felt like the end of the world he had been living in for the last few weeks.

***

If anyone had told Yaga that hiring two of his own former students as teachers would make his life this hard, he would have decided against it from the start.

Gojo was MIA, and he had had to call a substitute to cover for him. And then, there was you, who while physically present before your students, did not look as focused as usual.

You had taken your class to the training grounds for an improvised training outside, or that was what you were telling to Principal Yaga.

“I didn’t think ‘improvised’ was your teaching style, [name],” Yaga said while observing your students. “That’s more like Satoru’s.”

“I suppose,” you agreed, trying to ignore the painful feeling hearing his name caused.

Yaga glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your face was turned to the training grounds ahead of you, but a look into your eyes would easily reveal your mind was somewhere else.

As your former mentor, Yaga usually trusted your teaching methods and knew better than to pry on your personal business, so he opted for letting it is slip.

“Now, about Satoru, you wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”

That question seemed to briefly pull your mind from wherever it was, and Yaga saw you focus on the kids running around in the field and shake your head lightly. “No, I haven’t heard of him.”

Nothing since that night.

“What a way to slack off,” Yaga grumbled. “I’ll have Ijichi pay him a visit.”

Despite your low spirits, that thought amused you.

Poor Ijichi; he had been your junior in high school, and while he had become a reliable assistant, still looked up to you and Shoko. You suspected he held some of the same respect for Gojo, and that may be why he put up with his antics so much. That did not mean that Satoru had stopped treating him as his underclassman, though.

Even if he can find Satoru, he will be lucky if he can talk any reason into him and drag him to the school.

“Right, why don’t you go instead?”

Yaga was looking at you, waiting for your answer.

Had you said that aloud?

“Me?" you asked. You? Reach out to Satoru, after everything that had happened? "I can’t.. I mean, I have to watch my students.”

Lame excuse, and by the way Yaga kept his eyes on yours, you could tell he knew it was just that, an excuse.

Of course, he probably was not caught up with all the drama between you and Satoru, so he did not see any issues with his request.

“You mean the students who are about to shot us an arrow?”

“What…?”

You did not have time to finish the question when indeed, and arrow infused with curse energy flew by between you and Yaga followed by the gasps and ‘watch out’ screams of the kids.

You looked at them in disbelief and yelled, “I said no cursed tools for now! Put that away.”

Their obedience probably was motivated by Principal Yaga’s stern watch on them rather that your scolding.

“Sure, you may need to keep a sharper eye on them.” The principal’s expression was a severe as always, but you thought you saw the ghost of a smile on his face. “Check on Satoru later, alright? And tell him that he should pass by my office when he finally decides to grace us with his presence.” Now his tone had been a bit more serious.

With that, Yaga left.

Only once he was out of your sight, he allowed himself to smile more openly, remembering a certain group of students who had done their own fair share of mischief back in the day. Not that he would not give one of them a good scolding for skipping work though.

***

“Hello?” you asked, cautiously stepping into Gojo’s apartment.

You had knocked, many times actually, but there had been no response.

He had missed the whole workday at the school; as far as you knew from the assistants, he not been sent on any missions, and even Shoko had confirmed not having communicated with him at all that day.

He had not responded to your texts or calls, so you did the one thing you had been hoping to avoid all day: going to his place.

After some awkward minutes knocking on his door, you decided the situation was getting concerning and took out the emergency spare key you had to Satoru’s apartment.

When you were finally in, the darkness was the first thing you noticed. The sun was going down and some light still filtered through the partially open curtains.

Maybe he is not home?

“Satoru?” you called.

You walked further into the apartment and saw Gojo laying down on the couch of his living room. You stepped closer and noticed he was asleep.

Carefully, you towered over him.

Is he sick or...?

Only then, you noticed the half-full bottle of vodka on the table. Since when did he have alcohol at home?

“[name].”

Satoru was laying still, looking at you with half-lidded eyes, and you took a step back, straightening up. “You’re awake.”

He sat up. “How did you get in?”

At least he does not look too drunk.

You raised your hand, still holding the spare key he had given you. “You did not come to the school. Have you been here the whole day?”

His focus shifted to his surroundings as if he was disoriented.

“Where is your phone? We have called you a hundred times. Yaga is pissed, and…”

“Can-can you stop?” His brows were furrowed, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have a headache... Why is it that you are you here again?”

You huffed. “Yaga asked me to come here. Are you drunk?”

You did not recognize the look he gave you and his eyes drifted to the bottle sitting in front of him, the recollection of the last couple of days slowly coming back to him. Him telling you those awful things in the restrooms, him going to your place because he felt bad for saying them, him seeing Ikeda getting all affectionate with you, his blood boiling at the sight and the ache in his chest that followed.

The rest was a blur.

He had bought that bottle and been hesitant at first about drinking any of it. No, he did not like the taste of it nor the burning feeling in his throat, but once the alcohol had settled in, it would numb his senses, and if he was lucky, he would fall unconscious into a prolonged dreamless sleep. At that moment, it looked exactly like what he needed. The only thing he had not considered was the pounding headache he would wake up with.

The place was almost completely dark, but the little light getting in shone too brightly. He closed his eyes.

“Satoru?”

With effort, he opened his eyes enough to see you were handing him his blindfold. He must had left it discarded on the floor.

He took it, and the way his fingers brushed yours did not go unnoticed by either, but he quickened to pull his hand back and cover his eyes as if it had not happened.

You let a soft sigh scape your mouth. “Can we talk?”

You looked at him expectantly.

“I think we’ve talked enough,” he said in a flat tone.

He knew you needed to talk. What had happened in the restrooms that day had hardly been talking. It had been yelling and accusing, mostly from his part. He had felt ashamed for exploding like that, but when he thought of Ikeda holding you in front of your apartment, he could not help but feel hurt and betrayed all over again.

“No, Satoru. I mean, actually talking, explaining, and…”

And telling you I love you.

“I said there is nothing to talk about, [name]. Please just leave me alone.“

You swallowed your words. He wanted alone time. That was understandable.

“Okay,” you agreed almost breathless. “I get you are not feeling well.”

You eyed the bottle on the table in front of him. “Don’t drink more, okay?” Your voice was soft, mindful of the headache he had.

You wanted to stay and look after him, just as you always did when he was not feeling well, but his rigid posture and the way his face was turned away from you, was a clear sign that he would not be receptive to your presence now.

“And call Yaga," you continued. "He wanted to know if you’re coming to the school tomorrow or if he will need another substitute.”

The slight nod he gave you was the only confirmation that he had heard you.

“Okay,” you nodded back and turned to leave.

“[name]?”

You halted at the mention of your name and walked back, hopeful.

Satoru was still looking at some invisible point in front of him instead of your face, and the fact that his blindfold was on, and the room was almost completely dark made it only harder to read his expression.

“I’d like you to please leave your spare key.”

Huh?

You blinked once, twice. Your throat was closing. Why did you suddenly felt like crying?

Was it the foreign courteous tone in which he had request it? Was it because he was asking you to return a symbol of your friendship and trust in each other?

Perhaps, it was the underlying meaning behind such action why your hand trembled slightly when you placed the key on the table in front of him.

If he noticed the tear that landed on his carpet when you bent forward or if he was tempted to stop you and comfort you, you could not tell because you had never walked out of Satoru’s apartment faster.

----------------------

Note: Sorry for any typos, errors, etc. I'll proof-read later... at some point...someday.

For now, I hope you are all well. <3

Thank you for reading!

Next: Part XXVI

@mavs-stuff @witchbybirth @crookedlyaddictedone-blog @tqd4455 @maybe-a-bi-witch @mo0nforme @maliakealoha @zacatecanaaaa @blushhpeachh @astriarose @missesgojosatoru @ba-ks @sukunasleftkneecap @songbirdlully @cole-silas @heijihattorisgf @chokesonspit @hersheyzzz @smolbeanzzz @luciledreamz @avidreadee123 @moonmalice @ratscandaler @sadmonke @allie-jay @username23345 @spin-garden @ashehateaccount @kayzens @blehtotheblehtothebleh @stellasloth @bloopsstuff @cheesemachine44 @tetsuski @rosellerinfrost @catowru @bi-narystars @wondermilka @fortunatelyfurrygiver @shrxui @cc1306 @chili-paste

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Pairing: Tamlin x reader

Summary: Reader lives an ordinary life in the deep forest without name, past, emotions and dreams until one day she saves wounded beast and takes it to her home. However beast isn't a beast at all and everything starts to change. The past storms into her life and turns it upside down. Will Y/N be able to withstand it and heal? And most importantly will she be able to return in time to save the person who matters the most?

Status: completed

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

Part IX

Part X

Part XI

Part XII

Part XIII

Part XIV

Part XV

Part XVI

Part XVII

Part XVIII

Part XIX

Part XX

Part XXI

Part XXII

Part XXIII

Part XXIV

Part XXV

Part XXVI

Part XXVII

Part XXVIII

Part XXIX

Part XXX

Epilogue

Series taglist:

@impossibelle @sevikas-whore @b0xerdancer @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @tele86 @mybestfriendmademe @nocasdatsgay @yunloyal @nebarious @isabiss @st0rmyt @lilah-asteria @ubigaia @paleidiot @acourtofimagines @harahettania @talesofadragon @ceoofyearning @little-nightowl

[misguidedasgardian]

Wildcats (Part XXIII)

XXIII. No one like you

MASTERLIST

Summary: You are… grounded… of sorts. So you spend time home with your family.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Zombie apocalypse AU, living dead, zombies, guts, blood, guns, injuries, kissing, longing, angst, fluff, heavy kissing, touch starved reader & Daryl, hints at DV, Daryl’s awful childhood, nudity, body worship, NAKED PEOPLE AHHH, smut, a bit of awkwardness, unprotected sex (which I don’t encourage), might miss some important warnings, but you know what this is about

+18, MINORS DNI

Notes: ALRIGHTTTT CAN’T HOLD IT ANYMOREEEEE IT’S IN THE WARNINGS LET’S DO THISSSSSSS AAAAHHHH I needed them to bond a lot before they get intimate, i’m trying to be as faithful as Daryl’s character as I can.

You woke up alone

Daryl’s pajama was folded neatly on a chair in the corner of your room, and a note above it

“I’m sorry”, it read. You shed some bitter tears, feeling the coldness of it all, of the bed, the room. You had ruined it. Was he breaking up with you? what you had? You pushed him too hard.

So you wanted to do what you always did.

You sat in front of Rick and Glenn an hour later

“So… when can I go out there again?”, you asked with a wide smile, both men exchanged looks

“What?”, asked Rick, like you just said the most ridiculous thing

“Yeah, where can you send me next?”, you asked excitedly

“Are you on crack?”, Glenn asked

“Hey!”, you protested

“You are done for the rest of the month, hell, the rest of the year!”, Rick said quickly 

“I want to go out there on runs”, you said excitedly, “please?”. No, what you wanted to do was get away from Daryl’s rejection, you didn't want to push him, but you wanted to be with him so badly. And he might as well just broke up with you. You just needed to feel something else than this pain in your chest. 

“You are not going anywhere”, said Rick, “not now, not until your shoulder is healed up”

“Ah! c’mon!”, you cursed. “My big run was a success!”

“I know”, he said, “but you are wounded, I need you to recover, alright?”, you sighed

“There is something you wanted to talk to us about”, you said, trying to distract yourself, “yesterday you said it…”

“We are having a meeting tomorrow to discuss it”, muttered Rick, “Today we will be dealing with… other things”

“Need to go”, said Glenn, he smiled at you sadly, “thank you for all the things you brought”, you barely nodded, and watched Rick

“Would you take care of Judith for me today?”, he asked softly

“Really? Babysitter duty?”, you asked him, entertained

“Yes”, he said with a soft smile, “please?”

“Sure”, you said with a soft smile. 

“She’s upstairs, I need to go”, he said softly, grabbing your good shoulder and giving it a squeeze, and then he left. You took a long sigh, and went to do as he asked you. You went upstairs and opened her door slowly in case she was sleeping. 

“Hello Judith!”, you greeted, the toddler seemed to be happy to see you, raising her tiny hands in your direction, you picked her up however you could and rocked her. “ready to spend the day with your favorite aunty?”, you felt soothed as you held her in your arms, Rick sometimes was wiser than you thought him to be… spending time with Judith was like a… soothing cream for a burn

So that’s what you did, you spent the morning reading to her, rocking her, you even put her in a high chair and cooked lunch for her, made her a big bowl of pasta she ate with her bare hands, she was so cute.

Then you grabbed her and went out there to see what your people were up to.

You joyfully discovered that they were putting up a small greenhouse with the tarp you had brought back, and the seeds you had found in that hardware store, and that made you so, so happy. Maggie and Beth were making it a personal project, and when they saw you coming with Judith thay smiled widely

“Hey! say hello to aunty Maggie and aunty Beth!”, you sing, Judith made a hand movement that resembled a wave and you screeched in happiness, “we are here to oversee the construction of such an important building!”, you said with a childish voice.

“Well, you are both welcome then”, said Maggie, and Olivia even brought a nice jar of lemonade for you all, it was a nice sunny day. You then kept going as Judith got a little fussy, you walked her all over the neighborhood, and that seemed to cheer her up, as you saw many members of your family. 

When you got the whole lap around and came back to the house, you found Daryl in Aaron’s house, with the garage door opened, and working on his bike. You stopped in your tracks, you didn't even know what to do or say… Did he break up with you? 

“Oh! look who’s there!”, you sang to Judith, and when she saw him, she twisted in your arms in happiness, “uncle Daryl!”, Daryl was already looking at you, and his face lit up, and came straight for you.He used the red rag he always carried to wipe sweat out of his forehead before he got to you, you loved that rag. 

“Hey you little ass kicker”, he whispered lovingly and kissed her in her hairline, he then turned to you and kissed you softly on the lips, “what are you both up to?”, you were flabbergasted, you didn’t expect that at all, that show of affection. 

“Uh, well, I saw your note”, you said, he noticed your conflicted face

“Yeah, I was sorry I left you”, he said, with a soft voice, “I left my pajamas for tonight, and I wanted to work on the bike and didn’t want to wake you”, you took a long breath you didn’t know you were holding

“I thought…”, you said, “you didn’t want to be with me anymore”, you murmured

“Nah”, he said, with a small smile

“Daryl, if you want this between us to be platonic, I can understand…”, he leaned in and kissed you gently, just to shut you up. You smiled into the kiss. Judith got fussy, already bored in your arms, making Daryl separate from you

“Rick asked me to take care of Judith for the day”, you said softly, “I think he wants to keep me busy so I don’t go out there”, you admitted, “but it's nice to hang around with this one!”, you teased, making Judith bounce in your good arm. “I was thinking of just hanging around out here, one of the old ladies…”

“You really should start learnin’ names”, he whispered

“Anyways…”, you said with a smile, “she gave me some strawberries. I was thinking of making a little picnic outside with the little one… care to join us?”, you asked hopefully. He smiled at you

“Hell yeah”, he grabbed Judith from you and she went happily with her uncle Daryl

It wasn’t much of a picnic, it was a blanket on the beautifully green grass, a bowl of strawberries, Daryl, baby Judith, and you. You even got a set of wooden blocks that Judith was playing with. 

“Little ass kicker”, you whispered, playing with her, “were you the one to call her that first?”, you asked with a smile, he smiled softly, clearly lost in his memories

“Yeah the very second she was born…”

“You were there?”, you asked him

“We had just lost her mother, Lori, Rick’s wife, he was… gone… we didn’ know how to call ‘er, so we call her little ass kicker for acouple o’days until they could figure out a name”, the memory was bittersweet, but you smiled nonetheless

“At the prison?”, you asked softly, at this point, you were putting pieces together

“Yeah”, he whispered, “simpler times”, he whispered, Judith caught Daryl’s index finger and squeezed tightly. 

“Tell me more about it”, you said softly, caressing his arms, you were both lying on the blanket, while Judith played in between you.

“Like wha’?”, he asked, scratching the back of his neck

“When did you meet Rick, Carol and Maggie? And the others?”

“I met Carol and Glenn first”, he said with a soft smile, “we were all in a campin’ near Atlanta”, he said, “then Rick showed up, looking for his kid and wife”

“They had split up?”

“Yeah, Carl and Lori ended up in our camp, and Glenn brought back Rick from Atlanta”

“Wow”, you murmured, I mean, what were the chances?

“From there we tried to keep goin, ended up in Maggie’s and Beth’s farm”, he said then, “we stayed there, we were looking for Carol’s kid, she was missing”, your heart broke a bit, because it was obvious they didn’t find her.

“Then the farm got overrun”, he said, “we were out there all winter”, he said, “Rick’s wife was pregnant with this little ass kicker”, he said, piling wooden blocks for Judith’s entertainment. “we found the prison, we took it”

“Did you liked it there?”, you asked softly, it was hard to picture… a prison as a home

“We made a home of it”, he said softly, “We had some crops, and piglets and stuff”, he said with a small smile, “the prison fell when we were attacked”, he said, “by the governor”

“That sounds pretentious”, you said

“He was a psycho prick”, he said, “he killed my brother”, he mumbled, his voice dropping several octaves

“What happened?”, you asked him, and he was about to answer

“Oh! look at that little angel!”, you both jumped on your spots in your blanket when you heard that new guy, Smith, smiling creepily down at you. “Yours?”, he asked you both

“No, she is Rick’s”, you said with a soft smile, but you couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable under his gaze. You looked at Daryl, he had shared! He was opening up and you were interrupted. And you let this guy know it

“Ups, sorry for interrupting the family picnic”, he said, smiling mockingly. He leaned down and grabbed a strawberry, placing it in his mouth theatrically

“What can we help you with?”, you asked him, trying to get rid of him, you didn’t like him, you didn’t want him interacting with Judith. He raised his hands in a mocking manner

“No, no, just… feeling the vibe”, he said, “Looking through the neighborhood, that’s all”, he walked away from you. You exchanged looks

“I dun like him”, he mumbled

“Me neither”, you said back, “do you think he’s got a job yet?”

“Nah”, he mumbled. 

When the sun went down, you and Daryl left Judith’s in Rick’s arms, under his amused stare. As you seemed like such a strange looking family, as Judith didn’t resemble neither of you, but still, it was a comical situation. And then, you got washed up and went next door to have dinner with the rest of the family. 

Even the new ones were there. Which was strange to you. 

After dinner, strangely, beers came out, music was played, and you all dispersed over the dining room and living room, chatting lightly, groups, pairs and threesomes were formed. It had been a light day, like, “1 day without accidents” day, and everyone could feel it, the softness in the air, you were behind a wall, you had meds, food, supplies, guns… life was good.

It wasn’t much of a party, as you were just hanging out after dinner. You convinced Daryl to move to the couch, with you and Alex, and you chatted amicably. Smith’s eyes didn’t leave your form for a second, but you didn't say anything, you didn't want to make Daryl as uncomfortable as you were. .

Rick joined in, and you were happy he was giving Alexander a chance, he wanted to get to know him better. 

“He had handcuffed my brother to a roof when I met this guy”, told Daryl with a smirk on his face, as he had one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders

“Really?”, you laughed, “Rick!”

“He was… just a menace”, laughed Rick, “we did try to get him back though”, and then kept telling the tale. And you were glad they could laugh about it now. 

“Well now Alexander and I have a similar tale, he shot me on the shoulder as a warning not to take his tanker, but we are cool now!”, you laughed, and they all laughed with you. You were so happy right now, as you finally were starting to gather the pieces of Daryl’s story with the group, and the strong brotherly bond he had with Rick. Daryl kissed you in the temple and left you to go grab another beer

Rick stood up with him too, finding a talking topic somewhere else. 

“So? Did they give you a job?”, you asked Alexander, who sat by your side on the couch, he placed both his arms on the back and almost surrounded you, but you didn’t make anything of it.

“Yeah”, he said happily, “me and Rosita are gonna train the noble people of Alexandria in the fine art of ending the undead”, he said, pleased

“Really? that’s cool”, you admired

“Yeah and you know what? curiously all the ladies already signed up”, he said innocently, you chuckled, “I mean I used to teach self-defense classes to the ladies before and I did pretty well”, he laughed

“How well?”, you asked him

“Could retire after a year well”, he laughed. You chuckled, you clicked your beers together. He was handsome and anybody could see that.

“I think someone’s trying to poach your prey”, Smith chuckled in Daryl’s ear, as he was sitting in a corner sipping on a beer, but both had you on eye-shot

“Nah”, he said simply, he trusted you, he knew you liked Alexander’s company, he didn’t feel threatened at all. “They’re buddies”, he said simply.

“Gotta say, you two surprised me, didn’t think you’d be together”

“Why?”, he asked innocently. Negan just gave him a shit eating grin, looking him up and down. 

“You know what I’m talking about”, he said simply, “you look like you… lived some nasty things”, he said, “And she just looks like she’s fresh out of a fancy college”, he said simply. But he didn’t stop there, “You know? I’d poach her myself, I didn’t think you’d be her type, I bet that girl is into some kinky stuff!”

Hell broke loose in seconds

Abraham, Rick and Alex had to break it down, Daryl punched Smith in the face making him stumble back and get some other licks in before they could split them. Of course the attention was on Daryl, as all the backs were turned to Smith

“Calm down”, whispered Rick

“He was talking shit ‘bout my…”, there is something he was not going to let slide, and that is that someone spoke like that about you. 

“I get it, he is an asshole”, he answered

“Hey, calm down… she is watching”, Alex whispered in his ear, and that seemed to make Daryl stand down, as he found you looking at him with shiny eyes.

“Hey, what happened?”, you asked him softly, placing a hand on his arm, as Laura tended to Smith’s bloody nose. He relaxed immediately under your softness

“He’s got a big mouth”, he said angrily. Not having the heart to repeat what he had said. 

The environment turned sour, in a second, but Daryl, and Negan, both saw with amazement how the angry looks where towards the odd man out… and it was not the archer. 

“Wanna go”, he said with a grunt

“I’ll go with you”, you said with a soft smile. He looked at you to see if you meant it, and you did, so after the environment got calmer, you and him both went back to your place. 

The house was quiet, and you took advantage of that

“Hey, are you alright?”, you asked him. “Why did he say?”, you asked him

“Same thing I wonder sometimes”, he said

“What?”, you asked, he looked at you with sad eyes that broke your heart, “hey”, you called softly. 

So many things went through Daryl’s mind… He saw your soft hand, against his arm, his dirty arm, his rough hands… you look like you… lived some nasty things. He had… he had… he remembered his rough hands touching your unblemished skin, putting ointment in, he remembered your delicate fingers tracing his back over his pajamas, touching the scars you didn't know were there, his ugly… disfigured scars… 

You were as different as the sun and the moon, he was damaged, he had gone to hell and back, even since he could remember, you had managed to keep some piece of your humanity with you through all this. 

Your skin, or what he could see, was unmarked by the ugliness of the world, unlike his. 

He didn’t want you to see them, he was terrified that you’d finally could tell the kind of man he had become. 

He was crying, he couldn’t tell, and he only came to his senses when through his tear stricken eyes the only thing he could see was your beautiful face. You leaned in, caressing his cheek, and kissed him softly. 

“Hey, I’m here, not going anywhere”, you said, as gently as you could.

“You will if you see it”, he said.

“No fucking way”, you said with a smile, “looks like someone here could use some care”, you said with a soft smile. 

You took him to the basement, there were three rooms, his room, a big bathroom, and the laundry.

You made him sit on his bed, as you fetched some nice things you had gotten at the intimate store. The candles and some nice soaps. And you grabbed your pajamas. 

It was like a ritual, you filled the tub with water, you put in some nice oils and scents, you lit up the candles and turned off the lights. You went to get Daryl, you kissed him and caressed him until he was putty in your hands, and then… caressing all the skin in your path, you undressed him softly, gently, with a feathery touch.

You kissed his shoulder seeing his torso naked for the first time. And now his back.

There they were, crossing his skin in diagonals, deep ugly scars. Daryl moved uncomfortably under your hands, but you were not going to let him get away this time. Your hands traveled to his back towards each of his sides, to his chest, while you leaned in, and kissed each and every one of them. He moaned softly, grabbing your hands and squeezing, holding onto you for dear life.

“I wish I could take it all away”, you whispered against his skin. “But since I can't, I can only say this… You are the most important person in my life, Daryl, and I love you, just the way you are”, you whispered, you choked up a bit, your eyes filled with happy tears. 

You undid his belt, unbuttoned his dark jeans and let them fall to his feet. Then there were his boxers.

He got into the tub softly and gently. Letting the warm water envelop him completely, until he sat on it. His face was completely contorted in a myriad of sentiments, hope, relaxation, but also, love. You kneeled by the claw foot tub, and grabbed a sponge.

“I love ya”, he said, you smiled widely

“I love you too”, you said, you closed your eyes for a sec, breathing everything in.

“Come in ‘ere”, he said, you smiled, standing up, and getting rid of all your clothes, under his heated gaze. And you got in the tub with him. 

It was a bit messy. Water over boarding. making you laugh. He placed you over his lap, and you straddled him, sponge still in hand. You rubbed him good, his shoulders and chest, you washed his hair, you kissed him good. His eyes never left yours not even for a second.

“You are the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen”, he murmured

“Stop it”, you said with a smile. And you believed yourself to be the luckiest person on earth, you got to see him like this, hair back, all wet… naked, soapy, vulnerable… “I meant it, when I sang that song, embarrassing myself”, you laughed

“It was a pretty damn good song”

“Well”, you said, “there’s no one like you Daryl Dixon”, you said with a soft smile, you leaned in and kissed him.

You stayed there, in his arms, as it was his turn to wash you, and you cuddled there until your skin was wrinkled and the water was so cold you couldn’t stand it. You heard voices and steps upstairs, but they knew better than to come down here. You just waited until they dissipated into their own rooms.

Only then, when the candles started to die out, you got out of the tub, you dressed each other, and went to his room, for the very first time. There was nothing special, a double bed, two bedside tables, a chair in the corner and a bureau, but you didn't pay too much attention to that.

You were going to get in the bed, but Daryl grabbed you softly, making you turn, you did, with a wide smile on your face. He kissed you, hungrily, caressing your sides, then your face. He made your front stick to his, and that’s when you felt it. In your belly…

You moaned softly

“Platonic my ass”, he chuckled against your lips, you laughed. “I want you so much it pains me”, he grunted

“I want you too”, you moaned as your hands sneaked under his pajamas

“Oh I know you do”, he teased, “what were you thinking? dressing in lace all for me?”, he grunted. Your pajamas were on the floor in seconds, both of them.

Something finally snapped inside of him, like you had finally went through that last final barrier, his hands were a bit more rough then, he grabbed you, caressed you, your hips, and then up to cup your breasts

You moaned wantonly, caressing him back. Everywhere you could get his hands on. His hard cock rubbed against your belly, and even though you were all in now, you still had something that stopped you, you haven't seen it yet.

“Please”, he begged, and you knew exactly what he meant, you did it then, hissing when your finger grabbed him, he was thick, big, you moaned when you could wrap your fingers around it. He kissed you, moaning in your mouth, it was sloppy, messy, needy and you wanted it so badly… You felt like you were on fire.

You pumped his length a couple of times while he kept caressing you, his mouth never left yours. He advanced on you, making you retreat until the back of your legs touched the bed. He pushed you to the bed gently, and he was over you in a second. 

He kissed you again while you spread your legs to accommodate him in between them. When his cock touched between your legs you swore you saw stars behind you eyelids

“Are ya’ sure?”, he asked, “If we do this, there’s no getting rid of me”, he said with a smirk

“Maybe i’m counting on it”, you teased, you grabbed him by the back of his neck and drew him in for a kiss. He first teased you, slipping a finger between your folds, you moaned when you felt it, oh gods it had been so long!, but he found you drenched, so wet, warm and slippery for him. So much he moaned when he felt it.

You grabbed his cock again, feeling pre-cum leaving his tip, so you rubbed it all over his length. Your moans could make anybody blush, you wanted it so badly. 

He placed another finger inside of you. Teasing you slowly and gently. You spread your legs even more, you wanted more, you needed more, you needed him.

“Please”, you begged, you were done with the foreplay

“Ya’ ready?”, he asked softly, you barely nodded. You were so turned on you could cum right now. He released you, accommodating himself more in between your legs. 

“Go easy, it’s been awhile”, you said with a soft smile. You shared significant looks with each other.

“Yeah”, he said softly, “‘for me too”, you smiled at each other, as he led himself home. You whimpered as his tip opened you up. “Ya alright?”

“Yes!”, you said quickly, you wrapped your legs around his waist, making him bury himself deeper a bit more

You both moaned. Oh fuck, he was big, it had been so long, and yet, it felt delicious. Daryl was the man for you, the one you wanted to be with, and that made this ten times more exciting, more pleasurable. Yes he had made you wait, but it was all worth it as you wrapped yourself around him, you adjusted to his size.

“Fuck, yer’ so tight”, he moaned, he couldn’t hold it any longer, neither could you, he sunk himself the rest of the way inside of you. Making you cry out in pleasure, hugging his shoulders until you both were so stuck to one another there was no more room between you

“I love ya”, you would have thought he meant it if he hadn't said it before, and not in the heat of the moment

“I love you too”, you said kissing his face and all you could reach, he kissed you back, and he stayed like that, inside you, until you moved yourself, begging him to fuck you. 

He retrieved himself only to start fucking slowly and sensually, it made you see freakin’ stars. 

You moved your hips too, to meet his thrusts, creating a rhythm that was driving the both of you insane. He filled you up so nicely, hitting all the right places, it had been so long you barely remembered they existed, not like you had felt so good before.

“Fuck”, it was going to be embarassingly short, for you too, feeling that know tightening inside of your lower belly, it felt so delicious you weren’t even sorry it was going to be short. You understood it… You also couldn’t believe that this was happening, you were in freaking ecstasy, being with him, like this, you had thought about it more than times than you’d ever admit. “I’m gonna cum”, he grunted against your ear

“Do it”, you encourage. You’ll deal with the consequences tomorrow, Rosita and you made sure of having options when you raided that pharmacy. He thrusted into you rougher, more messy than before, he lost it, lost the little control he was using to make sure he didn't hurt you, but you liked it a bit rough. The bed made funny noises under you, and you placed your hands on his hips, you also needed a place to hold you down to earth as he pounded into you. 

He cummed inside of you, with a whimper that made you shake even more, it was so hot, you squeezed him tightly, cumming too alongside with him. 

“Oh shit”, he whined, “Fuck”, you laughed under him, looking up at him, his deliciously thick arms rested on each side of your head. “Ya’ alright?”

“Yeah”, you said, coming out of your high, you caressed his cheek. He leaned in and kissed you, just to slip out of you, making you whine against his mouth. “That was amazing”

He got the both of you under the covers and wrapped his arms around you. You placed your head in his chest, in such a special spot you could hear his heartbeat. You caressed his skin, and you could see it now, his ample chest. Fuck, you were so attracted to him it was almost criminal, how could he ever doubt himself?

“Yer mine now”, he said, almost sheepishly, you only smiled

“And you are mine”, you then them, making him chuckle

“Alright”, he said, with a pleased smile kissing the top of your head.

PCN: I really just.. made them do it, it was enough waiting, right? I hope I got the build up right… I listened to the song and some other classic rock ones while I wrote it… It was… different, good different I hope, then other smuts I have written… anyways. I'm a bit discouraged, not many people are reading this, only one is commenting (🤍)... and is breaking my heart, I'm so enjoying writting this... anyways... whatever, loosing hope this will pick up, but I will still post for the near future.

taglist ❤️

@crazyunsexycool @capricxnt

[rowonlgc]

[ 💬 peachy oppa ] oppa! happy birthday! i almost missed it because what day of the week are we even 😫 hahaha anyway enjoy yourself! i'll be heading back to seosan in january, will facetime you for our tree~

SENT TO › 유미란 05 / 12

  🔊 › “heard we didn’t get many peaches last year.       do me a favour and give it some extra love?       so it doesn’t feel neglected ~”   🔊 › “maybe i should join you. it’s been a while.”

  ✉️ › i like your part in ditto   ✉️ › you sound good   ✉️ › proud of you.

[bunniwords]

໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ ALIBI 🌀

part xxi - masterlist - part xxiii xxii. soobin sunk it

bunni speaks — i apologize in advance please dont hate me

︶︶ 　 ˚ ᡴꪫ synopsis — you are known for your brain rot anime content on twitter. so much so that you caught the attention of txt’s soobin on his secret stan account and became mutuals. what will become of this new friendship?

more under the cut!

“okay, and then what happened?”

“and then i read the letter and she said she liked me… more than gojo.”

soobin couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. when he got back to the hotel that day, he was kicking his feet and rolling in his bed, reading the letter another thousand times. his heart was going so fast last night that he was only able to get two hours of sleep before he was forced to get up for his next schedule in new york.

even with the lack of slumber, he was elated to tell his group mates about what had happened last night in the car. not a hint of tiredness in his bones. 

hitting soobin’s arm, huening started giggling for him. despite all of the shit they give him, they all always supported him and was beaming in anticipation for the two of you.

“she has a whole fan account with over ten thousand followers for that man,” yeonjun added. 

soobin happily and proudly nodded. that was right. you must like him a lot for you to make that kind of claim. 

“okay like did you guys kiss?” beomgyu wanted all the juicy details and he wanted it now. don’t get him wrong. he loves soobin and his conquest for love, but he’s been a puppy with heart eyes and was dancing around the details all morning. 

“wh-what—no?” soobin stuttered. 

“what?” the rest of them said in unison. even the driver was startled by them. 

“i… well, i couldn’t find the right time?” 

“oh my god,” yeonjun slapped his own forehead. 

taehyun groaned as he leaned back in his seat. kai had his jaw dropped, completely taken aback. beomgyu… well, he was laughing.

“you literally had it handed to you!” taehyun shouted, “she told you she likes you.”

“listen, i might not be that social with other girls, but even i know that you should’ve kissed her last night!” kai added. 

“isn’t it too early?” soobin mumbled.

“no!” once again they all shout in unison. 

“we leave the end of the week,” yeonjun sighed, “when you going to kiss her? over a webcam… come on, i know you can do better than that.”

“she probably thinks you don’t like her because you didn’t kiss her,” beomgyu said.

“no-o, she wouldn’t think that… right?” 

“did you tell her you liked her?”

“…”

“oh my god, soobin,” yeonjun looked like he wanted to cry from frustration. 

“why didn’t you tell her?” taehyun yelled.

“sooyn is over,” kai dramatically cried. 

now, you’re probably wondering what had happened last night for soobin to mess up that badly. well, to put it simply, he just wasn’t thinking. after reading the letter, soobin was in shock. you might even wanna say that he completely blacked out. he was definitely giddy about getting a confession from you, but he had no coherent thoughts in his head. 

poor guy didn’t even realize he never explicitly said he liked you. nor did he realize the look of disappointment (and confusion) in your face when all he told you was he really liked your letter and hugged you at the end of the night, before sending you off in a cab with the luggage full of gifts. 

“i said i liked the letter!” soobin shouted. 

“i didn’t think it could get worse,” beomgyu tightened his lip and shut his eyes.

“what now?” soobin whimpered. 

“you left it open ended!” taehyun added, “she’s going to think you’re friendzoning her. i mean, i’d think that too considering you’re a celebrity! and she’s a normal person!”

“okay, did you guys talk at all today yet?” yeonjun asked.

you haven’t messaged him this morning yet and soobin was rereading your letter before he had to rush for his schedule to even think to look at his phone.

soobin’s silence earned him more sighs from the rest of them. 

“our ship is dead… and soobin sunk it,” taehyun pretended to faint in his car seat. 

unsurprisingly, the boys were right. you indeed felt like your feelings were unreciprocated. 

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (XXIII)

Breaking spirits

Read part one // Masterpost // Continued from here

This part is dedicated to @dutifullykrispyland and that one choking anon who i thought of when writing the end of Ambrose’s scene :)

~*~*~*~*~*~

Jude smiled a toothy grin, his mouth wide like a shark’s, as he observed Ambrose with smiling eyes. “So you want to know about Supervillain, huh? Why?”

“I want to get in contact, shake his hand.”

Jude’s eyes flashed. “A fanboy are you?”

Ambrose smiled coldly, one hand on the barrel like table, pinky finger drumming a beat. “Something like that.”

“Mmmm, interesting. You want to join his squad, or are you just a groupie?”

“Supervillain has a squad?”

A flash of canines. Jude sat back in the booth, one hand on his chin in a mock contemplative expression. “Hmm. You’re not a groupie then, are you, stranger? You seem more like a fisherman to me.”

Ambrose clenched his teeth. This guy was getting on his last nerve and he’d like nothing more than to just shiv him with a broken bottle, or anything else sharp he could find. But then Max would kill him. But it would be worth it to see this bastard bleeding out under him.

“A fisherman?” Ambrose asked, voice deadpan. He shrugged, an irritated thing. “What does that mean?”

“You’re fishing for information,” Jude replied.

“Yeah, no shit. I’m starting to think that maybe you don’t even know Supervillain and just say you do so you have someone to talk to.” Ambrose said, getting to his feet and grabbing his jacket.

Only when he turned his back did he hear Jude say: “wait!”

Ambrose stopped, glancing back over his shoulder to the smiling idiot. Though he may as well have been looking at another man. Jude’s expression shifted in the flash of Ambrose’s disinterest, from a playful, smiling jackass to something completely different. Closer to Ambrose, or Kit, though colder than Kit was.

Serious, Ambrose realised, and he fought back a smile. Finally.

“Fine. We can be boring and talk business.” Jude conceded, gesturing for Ambrose to take a seat again. Ambrose did and the girl emerged from the shadows again with a tray of something Ambrose probably shouldn’t drink. The girl placed the bottle on the barrel, and two glasses onto the coasters already on the table.

Ambrose kept his black eyes trained on the girl as she blows a bubble of chewing gum and pops it before melting into the shadows again.

Was she watching them from now on, then? Two on one? Best to proceed as if they are, and if there’s two, why not twelve, especially if you’re Supervillain. Always good to have friends.

Jude poured Ambrose a glass and then himself, three fingers of bourbon each. A heavy pour. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to get me drunk.”

“Afraid of a little libation?”

Ambrose lifted his glass, meeting Jude’s light eyes over the rim. “You look like a bottom, so I’m down to clown.”

Jude’s eyes drank in Ambrose as he took a hefty sip of the bourbon, Ambrose’s black eyes never leaving Jude’s. He really fucking hoped that his wasn’t poisoned or spiked, because he would never live that down if anyone found out.

Ambrose lowered his glass with a smack of his lips. “That’s good,” he said, feeling the grooves of the cut glass, the same glasses Max used in his bar so at least they were consistent. Ambrose appreciated the attention to detail. “It has some bite to it. Now.” Ambrose said, clasping his hands together on the barrel, black eyes catching Jude’s again. “Supervillain. Talk.”

Jude’s gaze fell to the glass and lazily trailed back up to Ambrose’s face, a slow, lazy smirk crawling it’s way onto his handsome face like the Cheshire Cat who knew something Alice didn’t.

“I could have poisoned that for all you know,” Jude said.

Ambrose shrugged. “What’s for me won’t pass me by, but I do have another stop after this exchange, so if you don’t mind talking. I’m a busy man.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. I don’t even know your name.”

“Ambrose,” Ambrose said flatly, eyes going to the bottle of bourbon. It really was a nice bourbon, and Ambrose didn’t usually drink it, so he grabbed the bottle in his hand, letting his eyes scan over the label.

“That’s all I get?”

“That’s all you get. Now. Jude, Supervillain. Do you know him or not?”

Jude scoffed out a laugh. “You’re a stubborn bastard, Ambrose, aren’t you?”

“You’re not the first person to accuse me of that.”

“You’re used to getting what you want.”

Ambrose shrugged. “Something like that. Are you going to talk, or can I go?”

Jude tsked, glancing to his right. Ambrose followed his line of sight to another table that was filled with more reserved patrons. Though, Ambrose suspected, Jude was probably looking into the darkness for the girl rather than at the other guests.

Jude grabbed his glass and threw back the liquid in one gulp, slamming the glass onto the table and exhaling with a sharp hiss. Ambrose grinned at him. Jude nodded at Ambrose. “Finish your drink.”

Ambrose obliged happily, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth after. Jude filled the glasses again. “Why’re you looking for Supervillain?”

Ambrose stared at Jude, tilting his head slightly. Somehow, Jude had grown more serious in the time that Ambrose felt himself loosen up. “I want to help him destroy the heroes in the city.”

Jude’s smile seemed lopsided. “You do, do you? A random civilian, albeit dapperly dressed, wants the heroes gone from the city? The protectors of our daily lives?”

“You don’t drink and meet people in the back of Dead Men’s Fingers unless you have some grudge against heroes, as I’m sure we both know.”

Something passed over Jude’s expression, as if Ambrose had just passed some test. Jude dipped his head, his hand over his glass. He tapped his index finger against the rim, never breaking eye contact with Ambrose.

“Drink.”

Ambrose didn’t hesitate. Jude’s eyes darkened. Ambrose blinked back the taste, the liquid burning his throat, running down hot and warming his gut. Jude grabbed the bottle, filling Ambrose’s empty glass again. Ambrose raised his brows, looking at Jude’s still full glass.

“Drink.”

“You first,” Ambrose said, his eyes narrowing.

Jude smiled a knowing smile, the same kind of smile that Ambrose imagined he wore when he first met Kit. The satisfied smirk of having all the control and power over a situation, and knowing it too.

“I have information and you want it, Ambrose. This isn’t a mutual exchange,” Jude said, pushing Ambrose’s glass towards him. Ambrose fought the urge to swallow and throttle Jude at the same time. “Drink.”

Ambrose pressed his lips into a thin line grabbing the glass and taking a sip. Jude shook his head with the same smirk on his face, though his eyes had lost all humour, dead-eyed and staring. “All of it.”

“I usually only let very sexy people get me drunk, Jude, and I hate to say it, but —”

“Drink, or I walk.”

A muscle in Ambrose’s jaw clicked and he swallowed back a scoff. He licked his lips and then threw his head back. The whiskey’s pleasant bite now seemed more of a pain than a plus, slithering through his mouth and down his throat like a viper caught in a net, nipping and biting at every place it could to try and free itself. A trapped, feral thing, something Ambrose could well turn into if Jude wasn’t careful.

Jude filled the glass the moment Ambrose set it down, and Ambrose wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and beat the shit out of the blond. But, to Ambrose’s relief, Jude let go of the bottle and sat back in his seat, smiling friendly at Ambrose again.

“Now, tell me, what’s your power.”

Ambrose blinked at Jude. He knew that Jude probably tried to access Ambrose’s head the same way Jude tried to reach in and grab the relevant information about Supervillain, but to know that Jude had attempted the same on Ambrose left him a little cagey.

“You tell me yours.”

Jude tilted his head to the side, as if to say: really? But to both of their surprise, he answered.

“I can possess people,” Jude said with a wry smile, taking a sip of his bourbon, his eyes crinkling at the taste. “Like a ghost.”

“Possess their body?” Ambrose asked. Jude nodded. “Interesting.”

“Mmm,” Jude hummed, something flickering briefly across his expression that was gone too fast for Ambrose to register. “Your turn.”

Ambrose hesitated. Aside from Kit, who he had compelled to keep silent about his Villain identity, Ambrose had never told someone his powers. Usually he wiped their memory after, ensuring he covered his tracks when he dabbled in and out of people’s minds.

Jude’s gaze sharpened. “Ambrose… I’m waiting. Tell me or dr—”

“It’s charm speak,” Ambrose said, meeting Jude’s bright green eyes. Ambrose tried to appear uncomfortable at the slip, bristling at the reveal. If he navigated this properly, Jude wouldn’t know for sure he was Omen.

“Explain.”

“I can be very persuasive. Make people like me more, get better deals in shops, get away with parking tickets.”

Jude hummed. Then nodded at Ambrose’s glass. “Drink that down and I’ll tell you what you want to know about Supervillain.”

Ambrose hesitated again. “Before you do… why the drinking? What’s in it for you?”

Jude shrugged. “You’re a telepath like me. Some are stronger than others, some are weaker. Sometimes, getting them drunk means that they lower their mental defences and I can play with them a bit. Find out how their abilities work.”

“Why?”

A flash of teeth. “Why not?” He was hiding something, Ambrose realised dumbly, though his eyes weren’t as sharp as they usually were so he couldn’t ascertain what. He let out a long sigh as his black eyes stared into the brown liquid in the dim lighting.

Just one more drink and he can get out of here. Ambrose’s fingers tightened around the glass. Just one more.

Ambrose didn’t think. He brought the glass to his lips and tipped his head back, gulped the liquid, squeezing his eyes shut as it tore down his throat, abusing his oesophagus but swallow it he did and set the glass back on the table, smacking his lips.

Jude’s shark like smile still on his face. “Now. Where can I find Supervillain?”

“You don’t. He finds you.”

Ambrose glared at the smirking man. “What? You said you knew him!”

“I do. I pass on the information that someone wants to get in contact, and then he finds you,” Jude said smugly. “But don’t worry. I already know he’ll be interested in you. He likes telepaths.”

“So how long is the wait?” Ambrose asked, running a hand through his hair. “Actually, nevermind it’s fine. Annoying, but fine. I have a better question: what’s his abilities?”

A smug knowing glint inflected the corner of Jude’s eyes, turning them up into smiles of their own. Ambrose suddenly understood what made him so terrifying to Kit in the first place — excluding the fact that he destroyed Mentor’s mind — telepaths had an otherness to them. Most powered individuals did, but telepaths… right now, in front of Ambrose, Jude looked more monster, or god of chaos and trickery, than man. The quick-witted fox who knew how the story would play out.

“That would be spoilers, Ambrose. Something I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

“So you wanted to get me drunk to lower my defences so you could poke around in my body and see what powers I had, and what? Then you go and report it back to Supervillain? Are you auditioning people for—”

Jude tilted his chin back, the smug smile remained as realisation crashed into Ambrose like a truck. “Oh,” he said and Jude’s smile widened, leaning over the table on his elbows.

“Oh.”

Ambrose sat back, his head spinning, his eyes taking a moment to adjust with the movement, a little woozy from the booze. “Supervillain who attacked Mentor’s statue, that could’ve been you, possessing Mentor’s body. Using his powers.”

Jude didn’t say anything. His eyes twinkling in the darkness. “Then again,” Ambrose continued, thinking exclusively out loud about it. “You could just be a middleman like you say, working with Supervillain and helping them get connections, but connections for what? And then that all flies in the face of the shapeshifter theory because you’re new on the villain scene Jude, or at least, the villain drinking scene.”

Jude didn’t twitch or flinch, or make any movements to agree or disagree with Ambrose’s open pondering, his face remained annoyingly stoic, the smile remaining on his face, green eyes drinking in Ambrose’s expressions.

Ambrose laughed, sitting back in his seat. “You need eye contact for possession, don’t you?”

Jude inclined his head as if he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but knew he wouldn’t get in trouble. “Yeah. I do. Though, I have to give credit, Ambrose. You’re tougher than you look, and you look plenty tough.”

Ambrose didn’t know whether they were going to kiss or kill each other, but a civil understanding passed between them, that neither of them could attack the other and so they were on a more level playing field than most people they encountered.

Ambrose’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out. Jude reclined further back, glancing into the darkness. “Something important?”

“You have no idea…”

(20:36) Kit: Supervillain at old town clocktower. Omw.

If Supervillain was in old town, that meant Ambrose could reach him first, but then again he didn’t want to underestimate Kit’s speed. Ambrose lifted his eyes to Jude’s, to find the green pools grinning at him.

“You’re not Supervillain,” Ambrose said.

“You so sure?” Jude asked, whistling lowly as he drummed his fingers over the barrel of a table. Ambrose grinned back.

“Certain.”

When the girl melted out of the shadows, Ambrose grabbed her wrist and slammed it down, causing her to flash into materialisation but that was all Ambrose needed. “Be a dear and kill Jude for me.”

Ambrose didn’t have to wait for her to obey the command. She grabbed the bottle of bourbon and smashed it off the table. As Ambrose slid out of the booth a stray shard caught his cheek and lodged there. He hissed in pain, grabbing his jacket and barrelling through patrons in the bar.

Max emerged from the kitchen, his eyes finding Ambrose and sharpening to a glare as Ambrose waved his apology. George grabbed the gun from under the counter, checking to see if the double-barrel was loaded while Max clicked his fingers. A handful of fire lit up his striking face and cast shadows in all the right places, making him look more like a vengeful angel than a man.

Ambrose walked out onto Fagan’s lot, working his way back through the maze of skinny alleyways to get to the Clocktower. A hand seized his upper arm and pulled him sideways. Ambrose’s eyes widened, head turning, the disembodied arm was pulling him towards a brickwall and Ambrose panicked, his hands flying up to protect his face.

He didn’t hit the wall. Instead, he fell through it, and he felt as if his entire body was being grated, or strung through a mincer, grinding his bones and organs and then he was on the other side of the wall and he could breathe again, his feet back on the ground.

He fell to his hands and knees gasping. “Freaky, innit?” Ambrose groaned at the sound of Jude’s voice, though a bit pleased to see it was slightly laboured.

Ambrose looked up, the room zooming in and out like a camera trying to focus. Shadow walking when drunk is not something he wanted to experience again. He saw Jude standing ahead of him, half hunched over a wall, one hand out while his elbow propped a towel into his other hand that was red with blood.

Smiling green eyes met black. “I must say, you almost got me there. I had only managed to possess Selena here after she sank that broken bottle into my hand,” he said with a good natured laugh. “Good for you I only need one.”

“Pity,” Ambrose said. A snake of shadows wrapped around Ambrose’s neck, cold and vicious as they slithered tighter, leaving enough oxygen for him to breathe, but not comfortably.

“I think they call this an impassé, Omen.” Jude said with a heavy breath. Ambrose narrowed his eyes, focusing hard on Jude’s free hand with his fingers splayed, as if he was playing an octave on a piano. It was trembling. “I can’t release Selena until you compel her not to kill me, which means Selena’s shadows won’t release you either.”

“Seems like a you problem.”

A swift kick to the face sent Ambrose sideways with a grunt, the stray shard of glass crunching further into his cheek. He could taste iron in his mouth and grimaced.

The shadowed hands righted Ambrose to his knees again, the coil of snakes winding a little tighter until Ambrose could only suck in a breath after choking on three.

Jude’s next words cause Ambrose to freeze. “Don’t you want to try and save Kit?” Jude’s playful chuckle followed the motion, and then the shadows turned into a rope, pulling Ambrose towards Jude. Ambrose dug his heels into the ground, trying to fight against them, but he felt a hand on his back, pushing him forwards too, ensuring he couldn’t fight back.

Ambrose stumbled forward at the jolt of another tug, but caught himself before he fell. Jude’s smile widened to the size of a shark, and two hands forced Ambrose to his knees in front of Jude.

Green eyes met black, all humour gone from them, replaced with a wildness. Unpredictable and chaotic. “I can kill you right now Ambrose, and your little compulsion will die with you. So how about, to save your little friend, or brother— whatever fucking weird family thing you got going on, I suggest you compel Selena to not kill me.”

“How do you know Kit?!” Ambrose demanded, choking on Kit’s name. The question was answered by a crushing force on his throat that felt strong enough to obliterate his oesophagus. “Okay,” he wheezed, tapping Jude’s leg as blackness circled his vision like vultures stalking their prey, waiting for it to die. “Ock— kay!”

The shadows recoiled from Ambrose’s throat and he fell forward, sucking in air, his eyes so close to Jude’s ugly trainers. Actually he took it back, he’d rather be choked by shadows than endure Jude’s disgraceful taste in shoes.

Ambrose got to his knees after he caught his breath. Green eyes cut into his face as sharp as the glass still embedded in his skin. “No funny business, Omen.”

Ambrose turned and told the girl to stop trying to kill Jude. He turned to Jude who smirked at him. “Get rid of the word trying, and do it again, asshole.”

Ambrose shrugged, lighthearted. Technically, if Ambrose had compelled her to stop trying to kill Jude, the way the brain would pick that up is stop trying to kill Jude and just kill him. Always fun to do business with a telepath.

Ambrose lifted the compulsion, and turned back to Jude, spreading his hands, as if to say: there. Jude dropped his splayed hand with a sharp exhale, and Ambrose could see the sweat running down his forehead from the panic he hid so well from Ambrose.

“You can rest easy now,” Ambrose told him.

Jude sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah. No can do, unfortunately. The boss has called us in, so we’ll be on our way.”

Ambrose’s gaze hardened. “What?”

Jude grinned, green eyes shining. “Oops. Did I forget to mention that? Well, no worries, Ambrose. I’ll give Kit your best.”

“What do you—” Ambrose didn’t finish his sentence before his head whipped to the side and the world swam in front of him. He reached a hand up to the side of his head, blinking as he pulled it away. Something warm and wet staining his hand. He met green eyes and something flashed in front of him and he crumpled to the ground, his vision darkening like a vignette. The last thing he saw was Jude’s ugly trainers by the door.

Fuck.

~*~*~*~

The door opened to the basement opened again. Footsteps sounded through the basement, echoing slightly, off the walls and around the room.

“Malyn…” Sawyer hissed in warning. Supervillain smiled at Kit’s hero name. They must really not know who he is. He didn’t know if he should be offended or not, but it wasn’t something he had to decide on his way down the stairs and into the basement.

Sawyer looked up defiantly when Supervillain stood in the mouth of the room. Tides was awake too, eyes trying to burn a hole in his head, though the pair looked a little worse for wear. Tides face was flushed, while Sawyer looked a little grey around the edges. Only Kit remained asleep.

Supervillain crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall, his eyes flicking to Tides. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Not in the slightest,” she replied immediately.

Supervillain turned to Sawyer. “Fuck you, dickhead.”

Supervillain shrugged. “Alright then, plan B.”

He walked over to Sawyer, pulling a key from his pocket to unlock Sawyer’s cuffs. Sawyer breathed a sigh of relief mixed with pain when his arms were freed and fell like lead onto his thighs. He kicked out weakly at Supervillain, but Supervillain just stepped forwards him, grabbing Sawyer to his feet under his arm.

“Hey! Get off him! Let him go!” Tides cried, yanking at her own cuffs. Sawyer tried to summon his magic but nothing happened and he cursed, glaring at Supervillain’s impassive mask.

“What— what did you do to us?” Sawyer couldn’t feel any power dampeners on him, not on his wrists or ankles, but he couldn’t feel his power in his body, like every time he went to reach for it, it pulled further away from him.

“I inhibited your ability to use your powers,” Supervillain told him simply. Sawyer’s stomach bottomed out. It felt so invasive, like a gut punch, as if Supervillain had reached in and messed with Sawyer’s physiology. He tried again, harder, reaching, but nothing happened.

“How?” Sawyer demanded, digging his heels in as Supervillain dragged him to the centre of the room and left him there.

“Stay,” he said and Sawyer couldn’t move. Supervillain walked to the corner, grabbing a chair and dragging it over to where Sawyer was before shoving Sawyer into the chair. Sawyer threw his hands out, trying to catch any part of Supervillain’s body but then he froze in his seat as he heard the door behind him open again. But Supervillain was beside Sawyer, dragging one of his wrists behind him and tying it to the chair.

Sawyer’s struggles renewed, pushing at Supervillain and when that didn’t work kicking him. He lunged up and tried to step away but his legs didn’t respond, still obeying the stay command. Supervillain put a hand on Sawyer’s chest, tilting his masked head to the side.

“You want to try again?” Sawyer met Tides wide eyes with his own, his mouth suddenly dry. He didn’t want to just give in, but if Tides saw that he obeyed willingly she’d think he deserved whatever torture that Supervillain had planned for him.

Sawyer pivoted and punched Supervillain’s mask, sending him stumbling back, then grabbed the chair his wrist was loosely tied to and held it up to the masked villain, holding the legs out like a shield and a weapon all in one.

“Sawyer!” Tides cried, but Sawyer was already turning so his body branched out to both threats. The other man was in his thirties, with dirty blond hair and forest green eyes. He had a freshly bandaged hand which was half stuck in his grey sweatpants pocket.

“Come on, fuckers,” Sawyer snapped, his teeth echoing at how sharply his jaw formed around the words. “Just let us go!”

“You sure you wanna do that, kid?” The blond asked, inclining his head. His green eyes smirking at the defiant spark in Sawyer. The blond glanced to Kit’s sleeping form and then to Tides pointedly. “Maybe we can’t get you, but think about your friends. You want to get them hurt too?”

Sawyer clenched his jaw, fingers curling around the arms of the chair. No, he didn’t want to get them hurt, but he didn’t want to get hurt either. “I’m not just gonna lie down and let you torture us. Beat us fairly, in combat. In the field.”

Jude clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and glanced at Supervillain. Supervillain dipped his head and Jude shrugged. He walked over to Kit and Sawyer’s heart leapt into his throat. Jude reached down and Sawyer yelled out a terse: “wait!”

The blond paused, glancing back at Sawyer, waiting for him to continue. Sawyer slammed the chair down and sat again, locking eyes with Tides who bowed her head too. A wordless understanding blossoming between them. They both would’ve done the same thing.

One of them grabbed Sawyer’s free hand and tied it behind the chair, attaching it to the wood and then his other wrist, enough room left so that if he struggled the coarse ropes would rub against his flesh, burning it. He swallowed his fear and sat silently.

Superhero would find them, wouldn’t he? He would come to the rescue. Sawyer didn’t even believe his own lie, but it was all the comfort he had as the blond guy came around to face Sawyer.

“This one’s Kit?” The blond asked, but Supervillain’s distorted voice replied behind Sawyer: “no. The sleepy one’s Kit.”

“I see,” he said, straightening, his cat-like eyes going back to Kit. Sawyer kicked a leg out at the blond who gasped as if shocked.

“Don’t touch him asshole.”

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do about it, hero?”

Sawyer kicked him again, but this time, he aimed for his hand and the blond drew back with a curse. Sawyer grinned as the blond drew his fist back and punched him square in the face, and then hit his nose again until tears sprung to his eyes, dizzying.

“Leave him alone, Jude. We won’t break them by beating them.”

The blond — Jude — sighed theatrically and turned to face Tides instead. Unfortunately, he had the sense to step out of Sawyer’s kicking range.

“Fine. You’re the boss…” he said, then whistled as he walked over to Tides, crouching down to be eye-level with her. “Hello gorgeous.”

Tides spit in his face. Jude laughed, his hand shot out and grabbed Tides by the throat, tilting her head up to face him. “Oh, darlin’, you’ll regret that real soon. I’d apologise to Sawyer if I were you.”

Sawyer bristled. “Why would she apologise to me dickhead?”

Nobody answered. Sawyer shifted in the chair. “Hey! Asshole!”

Nothing.

The sound of Tides’ restraints unlocking strangely sent a cold chill down Sawyer’s spine instead of being reassuring. Jude stood and so did Tides, silently, the noiseless echo choking him as he stilled in his chair, waiting for… something to happen.

Jude stepped away from Tides, revealing her to Sawyer. She looked bad, her broken wrist hung limply by her side but in her other hand she had a knife, her expression an eerie blankness.

Sawyer shifted in his seat again, pushing back in the chair, trying to escape from the ropes, but they just rubbed raw against his wrists. “Hey. Tides. Tides! Wake up! Tides! Hey, Tides! What’re you doing?!” Sawyer yelled, turning his glare to Jude who stood with his hand out, fingers splayed as if he were conducting a marionette, his fingers moving in tandem with Tides approaching Sawyer where he sat.

“If you refuse to quit being a hero,” Supervillain said behind Sawyer, Tides stopping suddenly in front of him. “Then we’ll have to do something drastic to change your minds, won’t we? Did you know, Sawyer, back in the day, before heroes were called heroes, a lot of them stopped being heroes because of the horrors they witnessed. The PTSD haunted their dreams, and when it got too much, they retired. Some killed themselves, some went mad. But they did stop being heroes after a lot of pain.”

Sawyer flinched when Supervisors put his hands on his shoulders, kneading the tense muscle with his thumbs. “Of course. You can just vow to quit now, and we don’t have to do anything nasty. Tides won’t have to hurt you, and you won’t have to let her. Is your pride really worth all the trauma this will cause?”

“Don’t—” Sawyer choked out, his eyes pleading as they found Tides’s bright blue ones, dull and dead. “Tides please, we’re friends.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Jude said, “she’s not in control of her actions, but the guilt that will come after?” He whistled. The sound went through Sawyer.

“You can stop this,” Supervillain whispered. “You don’t have to go through with this Sawyer. Tides is out of it and I can make her forget if she remembers, and Kit is sleeping. Neither of them will judge you if you want to tap out now.”

“Please,” Sawyer said, shaking his head at Tides. “Tides, wake up! Please! Please! Fight back!”

Jude laughed. “Oh she’s fighting alright.”

“Let her go, you psychos!” Sawyer screamed, thrashing in the chair. Supervillain sighed above him, tightened his grip briefly, then stepped away.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this,” Supervillain said, and the worst part was that he sounded genuine. Jude however was smiling behind Tides, his green eyes fixed on Sawyer who squirmed as far back as he could away from Tides.

“We’ll start slow,” Jude said, and Tides sliced an arc down Sawyer’s face. Sawyer screamed through clenched teeth, humming as Tides withdrew the blade from his skin. It probably went an inch deep, because the blood was pouring down his face, leaking into his eyes and mouth.

“Crow?” Kit. Finally awake. “Crow! Tides! Stop! What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry, Kit,” Supervillain said and the three heroes stilled, their blood running cold. How did he know Kit’s name? He was right… they know who Supervillain is… Kit’s wide eyes turned to Supervillain’s two toned mask. He could feel Supervillain’s smile, hear it in his distorted voice. “You’ll get your turn after Sawyer.”

“Who are you, you bastard!?” Sawyer screamed, his head whipping to Supervillain. “Who the fuck are you?! Are you one of us? You fucking traitor!”

Kit trembled, cold, his wrists rattling in their restraints despite himself. “You heroes are so spirited,” the blond said, his eyes bright and cruel. “It’s adorable.”

“Do you want to stop being heroes?” Supervillain asked again.

“Go to hell,” Sawyer barked. Kit wanted to… he really wanted to stop, to not fight Supervillain on this and let him wipe his memory. Let the villain make the decision for him, let him quit while he’s ahead, he doesn’t want to end up like Mentor. He doesn’t.

He raised his head, looked Supervillain in his mask and said: “swap me with Sawyer.”

“What?” Sawyer asked, his voice a little hollow. “Kit—”

“Swap me out for Sawyer,” Kit said through clenched teeth. “Please, just please.“

If Kit could take the pain, and someone rescued them soon, then the other two wouldn’t have to suffer as much. Kit already dealt with Ambrose, he could take it.

Supervillain hummed on the way over to Kit. He crouched down in front of the hero, and took his chin in his hands. “Why would I do that? One hero is hurting another, it doesn’t matter which is which.”

“Please,” Kit said, his eyes pleading. “I’m begging you. Just let me go first. If you’re a hero you’ll understand. Please.”

Supervillain glanced back at Jude who kept his laughing green eyes on Kit, amused. “Hell, kid. I’ll even do the honours myself, I owe you one from your friend, Ambrose.”

Kit didn’t take his pleading eyes from Supervillain’s face, though he wanted to ask the blond a million questions. How do you know Ambrose? What do you mean owe him one? “Please.”

“I know you, Kit. I know it would kill you, and devastate you to see your friends in danger, in peril, and not be able to do anything to save them. I don’t want to cause you pain, I want you to stop being heroes. I want this to be quick and painless.”

“Supervillain please don’t do this!” Kit begged, shaking his arms in his cuffs. His voice breaking as he pleaded. “Please! Please, just let them go.”

Supervillain stood again. He nodded at the blond. Tides sliced again and Sawyer screamed. Kit flinched as if he was the one being cut. Only when Sawyer’s screams stopped did Supervillain say that was enough for the day, and leave the three heroes in the basement.

They didn’t even tie Tides up again, but her sobs filled the room instead of the screams, crying into Sawyer’s legs and apologising for it all. Kit stared numbly forward, his mind blank. He didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing.

And he didn’t know which would haunt him more.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

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